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ISLAND-INDIA 


Published  on  the 

Kingsley  Trust  Association  Publication  Fund 

Established  by  the 

Scroll  and  Key  Society  of  Yale  College 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/islandindianOOwita 


Tidore  and  Ter  rude 


ISLAND-INDI  A 

BY 

AUGUSTA  DE  WIT 


NEW  HAVEN 

YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  :  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  :  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXXIII 


COPYRIGHT  1923  BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


CONTENTS 

Introduction . vii 

Foreword . xi 

Glossary . xii 

The  Music  of  Island-India  .  ...  1 

The  Three  Women  in  the  Sacred  Grove  .  .  3 

A  Native  of  Java . 29 

Encounters  at  Sea . 40 

The  Hunter . 49 

The  Vigil  by  the  Bridge . 59 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Tidore  and  Ternate  . 

Papuan  Girl  . 

S  ameer  ah 

S ameer  ah  in  the  Sacred  Grove 
The  Sea 

Booroo  .... 

The  Hunter 
The  Bridge 
New  Guinea  . 

The  Isle  of  Pirates  . 

The  Bandjir  . 


Frontispiece 
Facing  page  2 


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INTRODUCTION 


THE  public  is  aware  that  publishers  do  not  invite  introductions 
from  persons  unsympathetic  with  the  author,  and  I  will  admit 
at  once  that  I  received  a  quite  singular  pleasure  when  The 
Hunter ,  one  of  the  sketches  in  this  volume,  was  printed  some  years  ago 
in  the  Yale  Review,  and  that  I  heard  with  enthusiasm  of  the  intention 
of  the  Yale  University  Press  to  lure  Miss  de  Wit  on  to  write  of  her 
native  islands  until  there  should  be  enough  material  for  a  book.  With 
the  understanding  then  that  I  am  here  to  praise  my  author,  and  not,  if 
I  can  help  it,  to  bury  her,  let  me  try  to  say  why  I  enjoy  her  so  much. 

As  far  as  my  knowledge  of  literature  goes  these  sketches  are  some¬ 
thing  absolutely  new.  Of  course  the  islands  of  the  Southern  Pacific 
happen  to  be  a  theme  of  the  hour,  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  compare 
the  cheerful  journalism  of  (for  instance)  O’Brien’s  books  with  the 
deep  knowledge  and  amazing  technique  of  Miss  de  Wit.  Far  to  the 
westward  of  O’Brien’s  haunts  loom  the  great  islands  of  the  Indies,  set 
in  their  shallow  seas  where  Conrad’s  ships  go  to  and  fro.  By  way  of 
equipment  for  her  task  Miss  de  Wit  went  so  far  as  to  be  born  in  the 
islands,  where  her  father  was  Resident  first  of  the  Western  Coast  of 
Sumatra  and  later  of  Timor.  Readers  of  Conrad  will  remember  that 
it  was  in  a  port  of  Timor  that  poor  Morrison’s  brig  was  seized  by  the 
authorities  and  saved  by  Heyst;  I  feel  it  due  to  the  memory  of  Resi¬ 
dent  de  Wit  to  remark  that  Timor  is  half  Portuguese,  and  that  it  was 
in  the  Portuguese  harbor  of  Deli  that  this  scandalous  abuse  of  power 
occurred. 

Miss  de  Wit  received  her  education  in  Europe,  returning  more 
than  once  to  the  islands,  and  years  later,  after  her  family  had  come  to 
Holland  to  live,  she  spent  three  years  in  travel  in  the  Indies,  visiting 
all  the  greater  islands — Java,  Bali,  Sumatra,  Borneo,  Celebes,  the 
Moluccas,  Timor,  the  Lesser  Sundas,  New  Guinea — and  many  of  the 
smaller  ones.  These  lands  are  all  held  by  Conrad,  in  fealty  to  Apollo. 
What  foothold  has  he  left  for  other  explorers? 

But  Conrad  himself  does  not  give  us  the  island  people  on  their  mer- 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

its ;  they  are  a  background  for  the  action  of  his  whites ;  or  when,  as  in 
Karain ,  the  tale  is  of  a  brown  man,  it  is  seen  through  white  men’s  eyes. 
In  Miss  de  Wit’s  sketches  this  background  is  moved  forward;  its  de¬ 
tails  become  clear;  it  is  itself  full  of  movement  and  action;  it  no  longer 
gets  its  values  from  the  white  man’s  purposes;  it  is  a  world  by  itself 
with  its  own  history  and  laws.  I  question  whether  such  an  illuminating 
study  of  the  brown  man’s  soul  has  ever  been  made  by  a  white.  It  is  as 
packed  with  observed  ethnological  detail  as  The  Golden  Bough ,  but  to 
my  sense  there  is  no  more  pedantry  in  it  than  in  Babbitt.  Miss  de  Wit 
is  as  rigorous  a  behaviourist  as  any  of  our  young  photographic  novel¬ 
ists  ;  her  romance  lies  in  her  sub j  ect  matter.  It  is  more  romantic — to  us 
— to  observe  a  rhinoceros  as  a  Malay  hunter  does  than  to  observe  a  com¬ 
mercial  travellers’  dinner  as  a  commercial  novelist  does.  But  the  method 
is  the  same.  A  critic  who  does  not  on  the  whole  like  Miss  de  Wit’s  work 
speaks  of  it  nevertheless  as  “an  incomparably  rare  and  precious  deposit 
of  facts,  traditions  and  memories  bearing  on  the  deepest  spiritual  reali¬ 
ties  in  the  life  of  the  people  of  Java.”  Like  all  sound  ethnology,  hers 
helps  us  to  see  how  uniformly  men  act.  The  Malay  boys  cage  crickets 
as  Theocritus  saw  Greek  boys  do;  the  bells  of  the  Tjikidool  reproduce 
the  drum-talk  of  Batouala ;  their  voices  furnish  to  the  instructed  ear  a 
topographical  map  of  the  district  as  the  night  wind  on  Egdon  Heath 
revealed  its  covering  of  tree  and  herb. 

The  style  the  author  has  chosen  to  convey  her  invaluable  knowledge 
is  of  so  high  and  unusual  an  artistic  quality  that  one’s  appreciation  of 
it  is  a  complicated  thing,  hard  to  express.  To  me  it  seems  intentionally 
and  successfully  symbolic  of  two  main  elements  in  her  picture.  First, 
its  slow  movement,  its  piling  up  of  fruit  upon  fruit  and  flower  upon 
flower,  its  solidity  breaking  constantly  into  vivid  light  and  swift  mo¬ 
tion,  its  recurrent  suggestion  of  something  formidable,  unseen,  behind 
a  screen  of  lovely  leafage,  gives  a  really  uncanny  impression  of  the 
jungle.  Second,  in  its  patience,  its  symmetry,  its  sureness,  the  unfailing 
success  with  which  an  involved  pattern  works  itself  brilliantly  out,  its 
richness,  its  essential  simplicity  expressed  in  splendid  materials,  it  is  the 
art  of  the  batik  worker  in  The  Three  Women  in  the  Sacred  Grove ;  it 
is  the  soul  of  the  people  she  is  describing. 

The  author’s  English  is  in  itself  a  masterpiece.  As  one  reads  it  envi- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

ously  one  admits  that  perhaps  a  foreigner  has  always  a  better  chance 
of  clean  work  in  a  given  tongue,  if  he  has  mastered  it,  than  those  born 
to  it,  because  its  singularities  arrest  him  and  its  root-meanings,  dulled 
for  them,  shine  out  and  take  his  eye.  Miss  de  Wit  uses  English  with  a 
sacramental  sense  of  its  values.  I  venture  to  say  that  no  one  who  is  seri¬ 
ously  writing  English  to-day  could  fail  to  be  both  abashed  and  inspired 
by  this  example  of  its  possibilities.  She  is  well  known  in  Holland  as  a 
novelist  and  essayist ;  her  critical  use  of  her  own  language  and  her  com¬ 
mand  of  French  and  German  have  helped  her  to  know  English.  These 
various  vocabularies,  instead  of  fusing  and  losing  their  edges,  seem  to 
enhance  her  interest  in  each,  as  a  traveller  with  various  coinages  in  his 
purse  pays  them  out  with  a  careful  attention  not  cultivated  in  a  pocket 
where  the  only  distinction  is  between  a  nickel  for  the  subway  and  a  dime 
for  the  bus.  Apart  from  the  distinction  of  her  English  style,  its  mere 
correctness  is  a  miracle. 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  the  sense  of  style  in  these  sketches  are  in  the 
service  of  a  passion  for  the  people  of  the  islands  and  a  dread  of  the 
devastating  white  influence.  Like  other  passions,  this  one  is  most  effec¬ 
tive  when  least  directly  expressed.  For  this  reason  I  prefer  The  Vigil 
by  the  Bridge  to  A  Native  of  Java .  It  is  not  only  a  feeling  for  artistic 
logic,  an  adhesion  to  form,  that  makes  Miss  de  Wit’s  similes  exclu¬ 
sively  such  as  would  arise  in  a  brown  man’s  mind ;  the  paths  of  the  ter¬ 
raced  hillside  come  down  “as  daintily  and  carefully  as” — ladies 
dancing? — no,  as  “women  planting  rice.”  By  this  method  she  blazes 
away  with  both  barrels,  so  to  speak,  and  we  get  two  glimpses  instead  of 
one  of  what  she  is  trying  to  show  us;  but  by  it  she  also  achieves  her 
deeper  object,  of  placing  us  and  keeping  us  at  the  brown  man’s  point 
of  view. 

Miss  de  Wit’s  style  is  not  restful;  it  is  as  exciting  as  one’s  first  flight 
in  an  airplane.  Can  we  trust  the  pilot  ?  heavens,  that  was  a  steep  bank, 
— shall  we  ever  straighten  out?  But  soon  confidence  comes.  This  is  a 
practised  hand  at  work  among  the  controls.  Many  people  dislike  the 
sporting  element  in  style.  They  like  to  have  a  sentence  begin  in  such  a 
way  that  they  can  predict  its  close  for  themselves;  they  feel  almost  a 
moral  looseness  in  the  reckless  divorce  decreed  by  such  writers  as  Miss 
de  Wit  between  certain  nouns  and  adjectives  which  it  seems  as  though 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


God  had  joined  together.  Well,  the  world  is  full  of  words  arranged  for 
them.  But  even  they,  I  think,  may  be  seduced  by  the  inescapable  charm 
of  beauty  into  reading  Island-India. 


EMILY  JAMES  PUTNAM. 


FOREWORD  AND  GLOSSARY 


THE  crescent-shaped  group  of  islands  constituting  the  Nether¬ 
lands  East  Indies  is  in  poetical  style  called  “Insulind,”  which 
name  the  present  writer  has  ventured  to  translate  as  “Island- 

India.” 

The  population,  which  amounts  to  about  forty  millions,  consists  of 
Malays  of  various  tribes,  those  of  the  eastern  part  of  the  Archipelago 
being  mixed  with  Papoo  elements.  Several  degrees  of  civilization  are 
represented,  from  the  ancient  Hindoo  culture,  overlaid  with  Mahome¬ 
tanism,  of  Java  and  parts  of  Sumatra,  down  to  the  semi-savagery  of 
the  eastern  islets  and  the  coast  of  New  Guinea.  The  small  island  of 
Bali,  separated  from  Java  only  by  a  narrow  strait,  is  remarkable  as  the 
last  refuge  of  Hindoo  culture.  In  the  rest  of  the  Archipelago,  so  far  as 
it  is  civilized,  Mahometanism  prevails.  The  confession  of  El  Islam, 
however — and  this  holds  equally  true  of  the  Hindoo  religion  of  the 
Bali  folk — is  no  more  than  a  thin  veneer  over  the  original  animism  of 
the  Malay  tribes,  as  it  may  still  be  observed  in  its  unadulterated  forms 
in  the  whole  of  the  eastern  part  of  the  Archipelago  and  in  New  Guinea. 
The  principal  means  of  subsistence  is  agriculture,  which  in  Java,  Su¬ 
matra,  and  parts  of  Borneo  and  Celebes  takes  the  form  of  the  growing 
of  rice,  whilst  on  the  eastern  islets  maize  is  grown,  together  with  several 
kinds  of  plants  having  edible  roots ;  and  in  the  parts  least  civilized  sago 
is  the  chief  food — the  marrow  of  the  sago-palm  tree,  which  grows  there 
wild. 

From  a  colonial  point  of  view  Java  (which  also  is  by  far  the  most 
densely  populated  of  the  islands,  having  about  thirty  millions  of  in¬ 
habitants)  is  the  most  important  part  of  the  Archipelago,  being  one  of 
the  world-centres  of  sugar  production.  Sumatra  comes  next.  Compara¬ 
tively  neglected  and  unknown  up  to  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  it  has  since  come  to  the  front,  owing  to  the  new  tobacco  indus¬ 
try  of  Deli  and  to  the  discovery  of  great  mineral  riches — petrol  on  the 
east  coast,  coal,  silver,  and  gold  in  the  interior.  Both  the  mining  dis¬ 
tricts  and  the  plantations  have  attracted  international  capital  and,  as  a 
consequence,  an  international  contingent  of  colonists.  The  Moluccas, 


Xll 


FOREWORD  AND  GLOSSARY 


which  were  the  most  important  part  of  the  colony  in  the  times  of  the 
East  India  Company  and  the  spice  trade,  have  since  sunk  into  insig¬ 
nificance.  The  coast  of  New  Guinea  is  practically  a  recent  acquisition. 

The  proportion  of  non-natives  to  natives  is  about  two  per  cent. 

Of  these  two  per  cent  the  large  majority  are  “alien  Orientals”;  i.e 
Chinese,  Japanese,  Arabs,  Bengalese,  et  cetera. 

Hollanders  and  other  Europeans  of  various  nationalities  represent 
only  one  third  of  one  per  cent  of  the  population. 

The  system  of  Dutch  colonial  government  originated  and  developed 
in  Java  and  was  determined  in  its  growth  by  the  characteristics  of  this 
environment.  It  is  based  upon  the  alliance  of  the  ruling  race  with  the 
upper  classes  of  the  native  population — the  landed,  the  moneyed,  and 
the  educated. 

The  close  of  the  last  century  was  marked  by  a  policy  which  stabilized 
the  authority  of  government,  practically  nominal  up  to  that  date,  in 
several  of  the  more  outlying  parts. 

The  changes  initiated  by  the  World  War  throughout  the  Orient 
have  likewise  affected  the  Malay  Archipelago,  more  especially  Java 
and  the  east  coast  of  Sumatra. 

The  impressions  and  experiences  contained  in  this  book  were  gath¬ 
ered  previous  to  that  date. 


GLOSSARY 


Adat 

akar-wangi 

alang-alang 

angkloong 


badjoo 

bandjir 

batik 


ancient  custom  having  the  force  of  a  law. 

plant  having  fragrant  roots,  used  for  perfumery. 

a  species  of  grass  growing  to  a  height  of  eight  to  ten  feet. 

musical  instrument  consisting  of  a  graduated  series  of  bamboo 

tubes,  which,  when  shaken  to  and  fro,  produces  a  sound  like  the 

clucking  of  water. 

man’s  jacket. 

sudden  flood. 

a  technique  of  painting  on  cotton  or  silk:  the  pattern  being 
overlaid  with  a  thin  layer  of  molten  wax,  which  the  batikker 
pours  from  a  small  goblet-shaped  ladle  the  size  of  an  acorn,  the 
tissue  is  immersed  in  the  dye  which  is  to  form  the  ground-colour. 
Then,  for  each  single  colour  of  the  design,  the  wax  is  removed 
from  the  corresponding  parts,  and,  the  ground-colour  being 


FOREWORD  AND  GLOSSARY 


xm 


dalang 


djati 

djelootong 

dookoon 

gamelan 

Gandaroowah 

Hadji 

kabayah 

K  and j  eng 

kraton 

mandoor 

modin 

pamor 

pasanggrahan 


passar 

pantoon 

Patih 

pisang 

Priaji 

rebab 

Radhen 

Regent 


overlaid  with  wax,  the  tissue  is  immersed  in  the  new  dye.  Thus, 
with  alternate  laying  bare  and  covering  up  again,  every  part  of 
the  design  is  impregnated  with  the  colour  required.  The  effect  is 
extremely  beautiful.  Within  the  last  few  years  European  art 
schools  have  been  endeavouring  to  adapt  batik  designs  and  tech¬ 
nique  to  the  requirements  of  Western  art,  in  many  cases  with 
marked  success. 

conductor  of  the  gamelan  orchestra,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
performer  on  the  principal  instrument,  a  graduated  series  of 
bronze  or  copper  gongs.  Also,  the  conductor  of  the  wayang 
(the  puppet-theatre),  who  recites  the  drama  represented  by 
the  puppets.  Generally  these  dramas  are  ancient  epics ;  but 
sometimes  the  dalang  recites  verses  of  his  own  making,  in  the 
manner  of  an  improvisatore. 
teak-tree. 

rubber  gathered  from  a  species  of  ficus-tree  frequent  in  the 
marsh-forests  of  Borneo, 
midwife:  medicine  man. 

orchestra,  the  principal  instrument  of  which  is  a  graduated 
series  of  gongs. 

a  mythical  being,  half  man,  half  bird,  the  Steed  of  Shiwa. 

title  given  to  those  who  have  performed  the  pilgrimage  to 

Mecca. 

woman’s  jacket. 

Lord. 

palace. 

overseer. 

official  of  the  mosque, 
a  white  alloy  of  silver  and  other  metals. 

small  hotel  maintained  by  the  Government  for  the  convenience 

of  civil  servants  on  official  journeys ;  it  may  also  be  made  use  of 

by  any  traveller. 

market,  held  once  in  five  days. 

rhyming  couplets. 

native  official. 

banana. 

title  of  lesser  nobility, 
the  Persian  violin. 

title  of  nobility.  Radhen-Ayoo:  the  corresponding  female  title. 
Native  Chief  of  a  Province.  The  office  exists  solely  in  Java.  It 


XIV 


Resident 

sarong 

sawah 


slendang 


Tooan 


tookang 


warong 

wayang 


FOREWORD  AND  GLOSSARY 

is  conferred  almost  exclusively  on  members  of  noble  families,  in 
which  it  is  practically  hereditary.  A  Regency  is  a  province  hav¬ 
ing  a  Regent  at  the  head. 

Dutch  Chief  of  Province.  The  Regent  is  officially  styled  “the 
Resident’s  Younger  Brother.” 
skirt-like  garment,  worn  by  both  men  and  women, 
irrigated  rice-field.  The  hillsides  of  the  islands  of  the  western 
part  of  the  Archipelago  are  fashioned  into  sawahs,  flights  of 
terraced  fields,  irrigated  from  top  to  bottom  by  running  water, 
which  forms  small  ponds  within  the  dikes  surrounding  the  fields, 
and  descends  in  little  cascades  from  one  to  another.  The  water 
is  turned  on  after  the  rice-seedlings  have  been  transferred  from 
the  sowing-plot  to  the  sawahs.  The  young  plants  grow  up  in  the 
water.  The  rice  of  the  dry  fields,  the  tegal,  is  far  inferior  to  the 
rice  grown  upon  the  sawah,  both  in  quality  and  in  quantity, 
a  long  scarf  worn  by  women,  draped  diagonally  from  shoulder 
to  hip.  The  everyday  slendang  is  used  for  carrying  burdens.  A 
mother  carries  her  young  child  in  the  slendang.  Slendangs  made 
of  fine  silk  and  ornamented  with  batik  work  are  the  array  of  the 
rich. 

Sir,  Lord.  The  title  is,  in  some  places,  also  given  to  women. 
Tooan  Besar :  Great  Lord ;  properly,  the  Governor  General,  but 
customarily  the  local  chief  authority  is  spoken  of  as  the  Tooan 
Besar;  and  in  many  places  the  director  of  a  sugar-mill  or  a 
plantation  is  addressed  thus  by  natives. 

artisan.  Tookang  pantoon,  reciter  of  verses,  who  often  accom¬ 
panies  his  recital  with  music,  half  singing  to  the  instrument  in 
a  sort  of  monotonous  recitative, 
primitive  restaurant  by  the  roadside. 

the  Javanese  puppet-theatre.  The  puppets,  whether  sculptured 
in  wood  or  cut  out  in  leather — in  which  latter  case  a  severely 
conventional  style  is  maintained,  with  sharp  contours  and  angles 
resembling  those  of  lengthening  shadows — are  manoeuvred  by  the 
dalang  against  a  screen  of  white  canvas,  whilst  he  recites  the 
drama,  generally  taken  from  some  ancient  epic.  There  is  a  kind 
of  wayang,  however,  the  Wayang  Wong,  in  which  actors  take 
the  place  of  the  puppets.  Wayang  performances  often  last  for 
twenty-four  hours  and  even  longer.  According  to  tradition  the 
men  should  sit  on  that  side  of  the  screen  where  the  puppets,  the 


FOREWORD  AND  GLOSSARY 


xv 


Wedana 


women  on  that  side  where  the  shadows  on  the  transparent  screen, 
are  seen.  This  tradition,  however,  is  often  disregarded, 
official  of  a  rank  below  that  of  Patih. 


“To  eat  earth.”  The  eating  of  earth  is  the  solemn  confirmation  of  a  vow. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  ISLAND-INDIA 


WHEN  Cornells  de  Houtman’s  fleet  entered  the  Moluccan 
Seas — the  adventurers’  eyes  grew  fierce  with  desire  as 
they  saw  the  hill-crested  island,  the  world’s  spice-garden, 
rise  blue  against  the  purple  dawn — there  floated  toward  them  a  music 
most  melodiously  merry,  breathing  out  of  the  unseen.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
were  the  sea  itself  that  sang. 

Astounded,  the  men  listened,  all  unwillingly,  mistrustful. 

“What  witchery  is  this?” 

But  from  the  crow’s-nest  the  little  midshipman  cried  out,  “Brown 
folk  are  coming  in  boats,  sounding  flutes  and  beating  drums !”  And  out 
of  the  blurred  green  of  wooded  cliffs  and  islets  there  glided  forth  the 
flotilla  of  orembays  surrounding  the  princely  barge  with  its  forty 
rowers  seated  on  the  ribs  of  its  broad-spread  wings.  It  carried  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  musicians  and  bearers  of  garland-decked  gifts,  in  the  midst  of 
whom  shone  the  Island-King. 

De  Houtman  kept  his  hand  on  his  sword-hilt  as  he  listened  to  salute 
and  felicitation  and  to  the  Sultan’s  prayer,  proudly  humble,  for  the 
Hollander’s  aid  against  the  cruel  Spaniard,  the  robber  of  spice,  the 
enslaver  of  free  men,  the  murderer  of  peaceful  folk. 

With  the  semblance  of  a  smile  he  gazed  after  the  islanders  as,  glad¬ 
dened  by  his  warily  worded  promise,  they  conducted  his  ships  toward 
the  safe  anchorage,  making  music  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  their  oars. 

His  companions-at-arms  stood  appraising  the  Sultan’s  gifts  of  hon¬ 
our  and  welcome,  earnest  of  booty  untold ;  in  baskets  gracefully  woven 
were  heaped-up  cloves  that  quickened  the  languid  air  with  a  sweet  pun¬ 
gency;  plumage  of  birds  of  paradise  that  was  like  sunbeams  and 
moonshine  intermingled  and  radiance  of  darting  flames;  regal  orna¬ 
ments,  curiously  wrought,  resplendent  with  diamond,  ruby,  and  sap¬ 
phire.  No  one  heeded  the  music.  But  the  lad  in  the  crow’s-nest  had  slid 
down  the  mast,  and  hanging  a  garland  golden  and  starrily  white  about 
his  shoulders  and  thin  young  neck,  he  set  off  capering,  twinkling  along 
the  deck  barefooted,  arms  flung  aloft,  and  fingers  snapping  to  the  beat 
of  the  frolicsome  music. 


2 


ISLAND-INDIA 


The  flute-players  and  the  drummers  in  the  Sultan’s  barge,  smiling, 
played  all  the  more  merrily.  The  boy,  smiling  back,  waved  his  hands  at 
them. 

Three  hundred  years  and  more  have  gone  by  since  then. 

Tens  of  thousands  from  that  day  to  this  have  gone  the  wave- way  to 
Island-India,  which  Cornelis  de  Houtman  opened  to  them,  seeking  the 
things  that  he  sought,  power  and  wealth.  And  still  the  music  meets 
them  that  met  the  first  adventurers’  ships,  the  music  that  simple  hearts 
do  make  in  concert  with  sea  and  earth  and  sun,  merry  at  times,  and  at 
times  mournful,  melodious  always.  And  still  the  many  heed  it  not,  be¬ 
ing  busy  with  things  that  to  them  seem  weighty.  But  the  child  hears  and 
the  poet;  and,  hearing,  they  rejoice  or  mourn,  fraternally. 


Papuan  Girl 


j 


THE  THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE 
SACRED  GROVE 


IF  the  country-folk  around  Sangean  hold  in  reverence  the  wood 
upon  the  steep  hillside  and  believe  it  to  be  the  haunt  of  nymphs  and 
good  genii,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  God-fearing  prince  who,  many 
centuries  agone,  lived  there  a  hermit,  and  whose  tomb,  as  tradition  has 
it,  is  the  moss-grown  mound  on  the  skirt  of  the  wood,  between  a  clear 
well  and  a  white-flowering  kambodja  thicket  that  strews  the  mound 
with  its  lustrous  and  fragrant  chalices.  The  verses  which  the  dalang,  the 
poet-musician  of  Sangean,  sings  about  him  of  an  evening  when  many 
listeners  are  gathered  about  the  flickering  oil  wick  that  illumines  the 
manuscript — the  children  on  the  sleeping-mat  in  the  dark  corner  stay 
awake  to  listen,  the  tale  is  so  beautiful — say  that  he  was  a  mild  and  gra¬ 
cious  king  over  the  many  nations  which  his  armies  had  sub j  ected  to  his 
rule,  and  that  from  early  youth  upward  he  willed  well  and  did  well  to¬ 
ward  as  many  as  approached  him.  But  when  he  had  reached  the  noon- 
height  of  his  sun-like  life,  he  forsook  wealth,  rule,  and  glory,  and  chose 
a  hermit’s  life,  for  the  sake  of  perfection.  For  well  he  knew,  this  man  of 
most  noble  understanding,  that  the  truth  concerning  the  soul  and  the 
world  and  very  virtue  is  not  attainable  by  the  man  who  is  a  lord  over 
other  men,  and  who  never,  as  fellow-in- work  and  fellow-in- joy  and 
fellow-in-sorrow  of  those  whom  yet  God  created  his  fellows,  may  build 
heart  to  heart  together  with  them  at  the  ever  fairer  edifice  of  the  world. 

When,  therefore,  he  had  given  his  last  counsels  to  his  son,  and  had 
laid  his  son’s  son,  whom  the  women  brought  to  him,  back  again  on  the 
breast  of  the  palely  smiling  mother,  blessing  him,  he  said,  “Fare  ye 
well!”  to  his  faithful  vassals,  his  victorious  captains,  and  his  well-tried 
counsellors,  and  left  his  splendid  palace,  followed  of  none,  woman  nor 
servant;  for  in  the  utmost  shadow  of  the  gate  he,  with  an  inexorable 
gentleness,  had  put  aside  the  weeping  ones  who  embraced  his  feet  and 
pressed  against  their  foreheads  the  hem  of  his  poor  garment.  A  little 
rice  and  salt,  which  he  begged  at  the  gate  of  a  village,  and  water, 


4 


ISLAND-INDIA 


dipped  up  out  of  a  brook  in  the  halved  shell  of  a  cocoanut,  were  fare 
enough  for  him  on  the  journey  to  the  hill- wood  of  Sangean,  where  a 
dream  had  shown  him  as  his  abode  the  spot  between  a  kambod j  a  thicket 
and  a  clear  well. 

Here  he  built  himself  a  hut  of  branches  and  woven  leaves.  The  fruit 
of  the  forest  was  his  food,  the  water  of  the  well  his  drink,  thinking  upon 
mankind  and  the  world  his  life.  He  considered  the  many  experiences 
of  his  life,  the  teachings  of  the  wise,  the  songs  of  the  poets,  and  words 
heard  from  children  at  play  and  from  women  who  thought  themselves 
unwatched.  And  whatsoever  he  perceived  in  the  forest,  by  night  or  by 
day,  the  budding  and  the  flourishing  and  the  fading  of  the  leafage,  the 
blooming  in  the  morning  dew  of  blossoms,  and  the  ripening  of  fruit  and 
its  wondrous  perishing  unto  a  new  existence,  and  the  life  of  the  many 
animals,  the  strong  ones  and  the  timid,  upon  the  ground,  and  in  the 
branches  the  merry  birds — all  this  too  he  considered  well ;  and,  that  he 
might  understand  the  law  of  their  movements,  he  observed  the  powers 
that  encompass  and  rule  the  earth  and  all  lives  thereon,  the  sky  and  the 
sun,  the  stars,  the  clouds,  the  rain,  and  the  wind.  As  the  shuttle  which 
an  able  weaver  throws  forward  and  backward  through  the  tense 
threads  of  her  loom — threads  it  was,  silk  it  grows  to  be — even  so  his 
thought  moved  forward  and  backward  through  things  seen  and  re¬ 
membered — things  it  was,  wisdom  it  grew  to  be.  The  rumour  went 
through  all  the  land:  “The  great  King  lives  as  a  hermit  in  the  wood  of 
Sangean !” 

Then  the  many  came  to  him  who  had  not  dared  to  approach  him  in 
the  days  of  his  power  and  glory.  They  begged  wisdom  of  him — knowl¬ 
edge  concerning  what  is  good  and  concerning  the  right  way  of  living. 
And  he  gave  to  every  one  according  to  his  need  and  to  the  measure  of 
his  understanding.  There  came  no  one  so  darkened  in  thought,  so  sore 
with  hatred,  so  wearied  by  manifold  erring,  but  he  went  back  walking 
lightly,  his  eyes  ashine,  and  his  hands  longing  to  caress  and  to  give; 
pure  and  mild  as  the  water  of  the  well  he  felt  his  heart  within  him.  And 
thus,  for  many  months  and  for  many  years,  many  hundreds  and  many 
thousands  came  sad  and  went  away  rejoicing,  until,  one  morning  be¬ 
fore  sunrise,  first  comers  found  not  the  hermit,  but  only  his  body,  pale 
and  transparently  thin  as  a  fallen  petal. 

All  the  people  digged  his  grave  and  built  his  mound,  every  one  desir- 


5 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE 

in g  for  himself,  no  one  grudging  any  one  else,  the  pious  honour  of  do¬ 
ing  an  only  and  last  service  to  him  who  had  served  all  by  his  wisdom 
and  gentle  virtue.  As  they  laid  him  to  rest  they  remembered  and  re¬ 
peated  his  words,  remembered  the  grace  and  pleasantness  that  had 
come  thereof,  peace  of  heart  in  sorrow  as  in  gladness,  and  sweet  secu¬ 
rity  of  fraternal  life  in  labour  as  in  pleasure;  so  that  enemies  forgot  the 
evil  they  had  planned  to  do  unto  each  other,  and  mighty  ones  promised 
redress  to  the  poor  man  they  had  oppressed,  and  such  as  sorrowed  over 
an  unforgettable  loss  felt  a  new  strength  arise  in  their  hearts  and  were 
lonely  no  longer. 

Then  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  well-beloved  one  had  not  altogether 
departed.  Some  rays  of  his  soul’s  light  still  shone  on  the  spot  of  his 
dwelling  and  of  his  long  rest.  Henceforth,  even  as  hitherto,  whosoever 
came  in  longing  won  his  blessing,  and  his  grave  was  sought  by  pilgrims 
as  for  many  years  his  cell  had  been. 

So  it  is  even  at  this  present  day.  Longing  ones  come,  each  with  his 
own  longing,  for  great  and  permanent  things  the  one,  for  small  things 
the  other.  The  shepherd  boy  who  rears  a  singing-dove  for  the  match — 
secretly,  for  his  father  frowns  when  he  sees  the  child  standing  head  on 
one  side,  listening  to  the  cooing  from  a  cage  hung  up  in  a  tree,  and  all 
his  thoughts  thoughts  about  doves,  whilst  the  buffalo  wanders  un¬ 
heeded  into  the  sprouting  field — the  shepherd  boy  hides  his  dove  in  the 
kambodja  thicket  near  the  grave,  to  the  end  that  the  virtue  of  the  holy 
place  may  impart  to  her  voice  the  true  high  ring  which  takes  the  prize 
at  the  match.  The  merchant  about  to  undertake  a  perilous  voyage  over 
sea  lays  his  offering  upon  the  grave.  Women  go  thither  to  pray  for  a 
child.  And  many  are  the  tales  and  experiences  of  good  fortune  fallen 
to  them  who  invoked  the  memory  of  the  bountiful  king. 

Therefore  Mboq-Inten  of  Djalang  Tiga  nowise  doubted  that  the 
dream  spelled  truth  which  showed  her  her  daughter  Inten,  who  had 
died  in  child-birth,  seated  at  the  grave  in  the  Sacred  Grove,  smiling 
and  crowned  with  flowers  like  a  bride. 

And  all  men  and  women  of  Soombertingghi  said  this  about  poor 
Sameerah — Sameerah  who  in  her  happy  days  was  so  much  like  Inten 
(the  Jewel,  as  her  name  rightly  declared  her  to  be)  that  even  old 
friends  greeted  one  girl  with  the  other’s  name — if  Sameerah  had  been 
allowed  to  perform  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb,  as  she  so  fervently  de- 


6 


ISLAND-INDIA 


sired  to  do,  then,  of  a  surety,  she  would  have  become  a  mother,  and  the 
shame  of  sterility  and  the  sorrow  of  her  heart  would  never  have  addled 
her  poor  wits. 

The  young  wife  of  the  Resident  of  Sangean,  Elizabeth  of  the  fair 
face  which  would  bend  over  in  so  sisterly  a  way  toward  dusky  faces, 
loved  to  listen  to  the  many  tales  about  the  miraculous  tomb  of  the  King 
who,  for  fraternity’s  sake,  became  a  beggar.  But  when  a  woman  whose 
child  she  had  cured  of  a  heavy  sickness  told  her  of  poor  Sameerah’s 
longing  and  sorrow,  and  of  Mboq-Inten’s  constant  hope,  she  looked  up 
with  a  new  light  in  her  eyes.  And  after  that  day  her  husband  often 
found  her  alone  and  silent,  deep  in  thought. 


When  the  wise  woman  who  had  driven  life,  together  with  the  child,  out 
of  Inten’s  tortured  body,  laid  the  new-born  babe  upon  Mboq-Inten’s 
lap,  she  never  looked  at  her  grandchild.  She  never  took  her  eyes  off  that 
closed  face  and  that  passive  body,  still  at  last  from  weeping  and  writh¬ 
ing.  The  women  who  folded  the  white  grave-cloth  around  the  dead  one 
had  to  loosen  the  chilled  hand  out  of  the  mother’s  clasp.  She  sat 
stunned  when  the  babe’s  father  called  together  kinsmen  and  neigh¬ 
bours  for  the  choosing  of  the  name,  and  did  not  even  look  up  when  a 
young  friend  of  Inten,  who  had  just  become  a  mother  herself,  laid 
little  Kairan  to  her  breast,  and  took  him  away  to  her  home,  to  nurse 
him  together  with  her  own  child. 

But  then  the  dream  came.  Crowned  with  flowers  like  a  bride,  and  her 
long  tresses  that  flowed  over  her  shoulders  and  her  knees  so  profusely 
interwoven  with  flowers  that  she  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  blossoms, 
Inten  was  seated  at  the  grave,  and  she  herself,  holding  little  Kairan  by 
the  hand,  was  hastening  toward  her,  crying:  “O  my  child,  art  thou 
then  at  last  come  back?” 

Mboq-Inten  woke  up  with  that  cry  of  joy.  She  ran  to  Kairan’s  fos¬ 
ter-mother.  The  kind-hearted  young  wife  was  suckling  him;  he  drank 
eagerly.  Jealously  she  looked  on.  Would  she  had  been  able  to  do  it  her¬ 
self,  would  she  could  have  fed  Inten’s  child  with  her  own  life !  With  a 
passionate  tenderness  she  stroked  the  soft  little  body.  “Ah!  how  I  will 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  7 

take  care  of  him!  How  I  will  feed  him  and  foster  him,  that  he  may 
grow  up  tall  and  handsome,  that  thou  mayest  rejoice  when  thou  seest 
him  again,  my  jewel !” 

She  could  hardly  await  the  day  for  the  fetching  him  home.  She 
would  sit  with  the  child  in  her  lap,  feeding  him  with  rice  and  banana 
kneaded  together  into  sweetly  nourishing  mouthfuls.  All  day  long  she 
carried  the  little  one  about  with  her,  lying  in  her  carefully  arranged 
slendang  as  in  a  hanging  cradle.  He  slept  by  her  side  on  the  bale-bale, 
which  she  had  spread  with  a  new  sleeping  mat.  The  first  thing  she  saw 
on  awaking  at  dawn  was  the  little  round  downy-black  head;  the  eyes 
lay  closed,  the  long  lashes  on  the  cheeks  like  two  delicately  striped 
streaks  of  shadow.  The  mouth  was  a  little  open,  the  tiny  white  teeth 
showing.  Mboq-Inten  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  to  gaze  at  him  for  a 
long  while.  She  let  her  eyes  have  their  fill  of  him.  And  still,  when  look¬ 
ing  thus  upon  Inten’s  child,  she  would  think  of  the  days  when  she  had 
looked  in  this  same  way  upon  Inten. 

Paq-Inten  had  marked  the  grave  with  two  ornamental  wooden  posts 
finely  carved  and  sculptured,  at  head  and  foot,  that  Mboq-Inten  might 
find  it  when,  on  the  many  Days  of  Remembrance  that  mothers  hallow, 
she  would  bring  to  Inten’s  grave  the  sacrifice  of  food  by  which  souls 
are  sustained  in  the  Land  of  Shadows.  Mboq-Inten,  however,  observed 
such  days  only  as  are  strictly  prescribed  by  the  Adat,  the  Law  of  An¬ 
cient  Custom;  and  after  a  while  she  altogether  ceased  visiting  the 
grave.  But  to  the  Sacred  Grove  she  would  go  again  and  again;  and  as 
she  laid  the  wreath  of  jessamine  on  the  tomb  and  strewed  handfuls  of 
rose  leaves  over  the  moss,  she  would  whisper,  her  eyes  full  of  tears: 
“Do  not  stay  away  for  too  long  a  time,  child  of  my  heart!  Come  back 
soon,  ah!  soon!  to  thy  dear  mother!”  Kairan  was  far  too  little  a  child  as 
yet  to  understand ;  but  all  the  same  she  put  flowers  into  his  small  hands 
sometimes  and  made  him  lay  them  on  the  tomb,  and  then  she  would  say 
that  this  was  to  make  his  mother  come  back  the  sooner,  and  that  when 
she  came  she  would  bring  him  whatever  he  wanted  or  could  think  of  for 
a  present.  Paq-Kairan  did  not  busy  himself  much  with  his  child.  And 
he  never  spoke  of  Inten.  He  went  in  and  out  of  his  parents-in-law’s 
house  and  the  chamber  where  he  had  lived  together  with  Inten,  as  if 
everything  within  were  still  as  it  had  always  been.  Mboq-Inten  thought 
that  this  was  because  he,  like  herself,  was  waiting  for  Inten’s  return, 


8  ISLAND-INDIA 

though  he  would  neither  hear  nor  speak  of  it,  and  though  his  face 
would  darken  when  she  said  to  little  Kairan:  “When  Mother  comes 
back — !” 

But  one  morning  he  went  out  of  the  house  as  if  he  were  going  to  the 
passar  at  Sangean,  to  look  on  and  lay  wagers  at  the  cock-fight,  and  did 
not  come  back  at  night,  nor  next  morning.  It  became  time  to  plough 
the  sawah — but  he  did  not  come  home.  And  Paq-Inten,  sighing  and 
shaking  his  head,  took  to  the  pawn-house  gear  that  he  could  not  well 
dispense  with,  in  order  to  get  money  to  hire  a  helper  in  his  son-in-law’s 
stead.  Some  weeks  after,  a  villager  who  had  made  the  journey  from 
Sumatra  with  the  pilgrims’  ship  came  and  told  Paq-Inten  and  Mboq- 
Inten  how  he  had  seen  Paq-Kairan  in  Medan.  He  was  earning  a  good 
deal  of  money  on  a  tobacco  estate ;  and  he  had  married  a  Battak  woman 
out  there. 

Mboq-Inten  cried  shame  upon  him.  The  old  man  only  sighed  and 
said  that  it  was  too  bad.  What  was  to  become  of  the  field-work  now, 
and  the  day’s  wages  growing  higher  and  higher  and  his  limbs  growing 
stiff er  and  stiff er?  He  kept  on  lamenting  long  after  Mboq-Inten  had 
put  away  all  thought  of  the  man  who  had  abandoned  her  daughter; 
there  were  many  men  far  better  than  he  in  Java!  Inten  would  have  a 
husband  for  the  choosing,  when  she  came  back!  But  the  loss  which  Paq- 
Inten  was  for  ever  bemoaning  must  be  made  good  again ;  Inten  should 
not  return  to  a  beggared  home ! 

And  the  mother  took  up  again  the  delicate  work  which,  a  few  years 
agone,  she  had  left  to  her  daughter’s  younger  eyes  and  suppler  fingers, 
but  which  formerly  she  had  done  surpassingly  well  herself:  the  batik- 
king  of  sarongs  and  head-kerchiefs  and  slendangs.  The  Chinaman  in 
town — how  sharply  he  used  to  look  at  the  work  through  his  large  horn¬ 
rimmed  spectacles ! — always  gave  more  for  hers  than  for  that  of  any  of 
the  other  women.  She  feared,  it  is  true,  that  she  should  no  longer  be 
able  to  do  it  so  well.  But  with  the  thought  of  Inten  in  her  heart  she  did 
her  utmost. 

Her  batikking-frame  stood  under  the  eaves,  there  where  the  shadow 
stayed  longest.  She  squatted  down  before  the  length  of  white  cotton 
cloth  hanging  from  the  frame,  and,  intent  upon  the  work,  began  draw¬ 
ing  the  figures  of  the  design  she  had  planned.  The  fine  jet  of  molten 
wax  running  from  the  spout  of  the  tiny  batikking-bowl,  no  larger  than 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  9 

the  cup  of  an  acorn,  fashioned  leafy  tendrils  on  the  web,  and  flowers, 
and  all  manner  of  wonderful  birds  fluttering  on  butterfly-like  wings. 
Blue,  brown,  bright  yellow,  and  purple  the  dye-vats  gleamed  in  the 
shadow  of  the  lemon  thicket.  How  many  times  from  childhood  onward 
had  she  not  prepared  those  dyes,  after  the  same  prescription  always ; 
how  often  with  the  little  jet  of  molten  wax,  blackened  by  reiterated 
use,  and  scraping  off,  and  melting  down  again,  traced  that  design  ex¬ 
actly  as  she  had  seen  it  growing  under  her  mother’s  batikking-bowl, 
and  as  she  well  knew  that  her  mother’s  mother  had  traced  it  in  her  day ! 
Over  a  thousand  years  old  the  pattern  was,  she  had  often  heard  it  said. 
A  princess  had  imagined  it  as  she  sat  all  alone  amongst  the  flowers  and 
birds  and  small  animals  of  the  Sacred  Grove,  where  she  chose  to  live 
rather  than  in  the  Kraton  of  her  father  the  Sultan.  The  nymphs  who 
have  their  abode  in  the  wood  were  her  companions.  She  never  stood  in 
need  of  food  or  of  the  things  necessary  to  her  work ;  for  the  wood-doves 
brought  her  plenty  of  sweet  berries  and  nuts  out  of  the  tall  trees ;  the 
grey  monkeys  knew  when  she  was  thirsty  and  came  to  her  carrying  in 
their  hands  “the  little  cool  well-spring  that  hovers  in  the  air,”  the  ripe 
fruit  of  the  cocoa-palm,  that  has  sweetly  flavoured  water  within  its 
kernel;  and  the  tiny  bees,  which  neither  sting  nor  buzz,  made  their 
nest  in  the  tree  overshadowing  her,  so  that  she  need  but  stretch  out  her 
hand  for  the  wax  with  which  to  trace  her  design,  whilst  on  all  the 
bushes  the  most  beautiful  flowers  bloomed  for  her  to  gather  and  pre¬ 
pare  dyes  from.  The  little  jester  of  the  wood,  the  dwarf  hart,  that  is 
wittier  and  merrier  than  all  other  animals,  would  caper  and  frolic  be¬ 
fore  her  and  tell  her  all  manner  of  stories,  the  drollest  it  could  think  of. 

Whoever  knew  about  this  would  easily  recognize  it  all  in  the  batik- 
design;  although  much  of  it  had  been  lost  at  the  hands  of  careless 
batikkers,  whose  thoughts  were  of  other  things,  so  that  the  true  shape 
of  what  the  Princess-in-the-Wood  had  imagined  no  longer  appeared 
upon  their  cloth,  but  only  a  shadow  as  unsteady  and  distorted  as  the 
shadows  upon  the  wall  when  the  flickering  oil  wick  is  lit.  Nor  had 
Mboq-Inten  herself  ever  seen  a  good  design  or  made  one  herself,  al¬ 
though  her  work,  which  she  did  lovingly,  excelled  that  of  the  other 
women.  But  as  now  she  set  about  her  task,  her  heart  full  of  that  vision 
of  Inten  in  the  Sacred  Grove,  the  slack  lines  regained  vigour, 
shrivelled  contours  unfolded,  clumsiness  was  changed  into  grace.  The 


10  ISLAND-INDIA 

loveliness  of  a  heart  at  peace  with  itself  and  the  loveliness  of  the  forest 
blossomed  forth  under  the  flow  from  the  tiny  batikking-bowl.  Wonder¬ 
ing  and  rejoicing,  she  saw  how  the  flowers  she  traced  with  yellow  wax 
upon  white  cloth  nevertheless  resembled  the  splendidly  coloured  blos¬ 
soms  amongst  the  green  leafage  of  the  forest,  and  how  the  design  on 
the  wings  of  her  butterflies  verily  was  the  jewel-like  scintillation  that 
so  alluringly  flashes  out  and  again  vanishes  fluttering  athwart  the 
dappled  shades  and  the  sudden  sunbeams  there.  The  rippling  gleams 
of  the  well-spring  broke  forth  from  wavy  circlets  and  serpentine  me¬ 
anders.  She  remembered  stories  of  nymphs  and  heroes  and  high  adven¬ 
tures  in  the  wood,  when  the  dragon  she  had  drawn  with  a  long  twisting 
body  and  gripping  talons  opened  his  perilous  eyes  and  looked  upon 
her.  The  bird  that  sailed  so  stately,  his  gorgeous  wings  outspread,  was 
a  messenger  of  the  Gods. 

There  were  five  colours  in  Mboq-Inten’s  pattern;  five  times  she  had 
to  dip  the  sarong  into  one  of  the  five  dyes  corresponding  to  the  part 
of  the  design  in  hand,  all  the  others  being  covered  with  wax;  and  as 
each  time  a  different  part  was  stained,  and  again  covered  up  with  wax, 
whilst  another  was  laid  bare  and,  after  another  immersion,  changed 
from  white  into  its  appointed  glow  of  red  or  blue  or  rich  brown — the 
ground  being  a  lucid  yellow,  and  a  touch  of  black  emphasizing  an  im¬ 
portant  feature  here  and  there — Mboq-Inten  each  time  saw  a  differ¬ 
ent  element  of  the  design  appearing  in  a  vigour  and  purity  hitherto 
unknown.  But  as,  after  the  fifth  immersion  and  the  removal  of  all  the 
wax,  it  shone  out  in  its  full  perfection  and  harmony,  she  stood  motion¬ 
less  with  joyous  surprise.  And  the  women  of  the  village,  one  calling  to 
another  to  come  and  see  Mboq-Inten’s  sarong-batik,  exclaimed  that 
a  Regent’s  consort,  ay,  a  princess  in  the  Kraton  at  Djocjakarta, 
might  well  be  glad  to  wear  so  rich  a  garment ! 

The  Chinaman  in  town  wiped  his  spectacles  on  his  grey  silk  badju, 
the  better  to  inspect  the  batik  as  Mboq-Inten  spread  it  out  on  his 
counter.  And  in  his  eagerness  to  possess  it  he  hastily  named  a  high 
price,  so  that  he  at  once  had  to  take  back  his  word.  But  Mboq-Inten, 
who  used  to  stand  in  so  great  fear  of  him,  drew  away  the  sarong  from 
under  his  hands  and  left  the  shop  with  it,  and  he  ran  after  her  as  far  as 
the  passar,  with  the  money  heavy  and  shining  in  his  hand.  Mboq-Inten 
went  home  well  content.  It  made  her  proud  to  feel  how  heavily  little 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  11 

Kairan,  asleep  in  the  hanging  cradle  of  the  slendang,  weighed  upon  her 
hip.  Soon  he  would  be  big  enough  to  walk  all  the  long  way!  She  could 
give  him  what  his  little  mouth  would  savour,  what  his  little  heart  would 
have;  enough  of  everything  there  would  be  for  him.  Oh,  how  Inten 
would  smile,  when  she  saw  him  so  tall  and  so  handsome !  The  offering 
she  laid  on  the  tomb  in  the  Sacred  Grove  that  day  was  even  richer  than 
the  usual  one.  How  long  still  would  the  time  be,  ah!  how  long?  But  she 
wiped  away  the  tears  that  rose  to  her  eyes,  scalding.  She  would  wait, 
she  would  wait  patiently. 

Even  thus  the  husbandman  waits  who  has  sown  his  rice.  He  does  not 
think  of  the  emptiness  in  his  barn ;  he  thinks  of  the  coming  fulness  on 
his  field. 


But  after  a  very  different  manner  did  she  wait  who  in  the  days  of  her 
happy  girlhood  had  been  Inten’s  very  image,  and  as  comely  and  as 
merry  of  heart  as  she;  after  a  very  different  manner  poor  Sameerah 
waited  for  salvation  out  of  the  Sacred  Grove;  in  vain  longing,  helpless, 
scorned. 

At  the  same  time  as  Inten’s  parents,  the  parents  of  Sameerah  had 
prepared  their  daughter’s  marriage,  in  the  good  time  of  the  year,  the 
glad  time,  the  time  of  plenty,  the  rice-harvest. 

It  is  the  marriage  feast  of  the  Rice.  The  two  tallest  and  finest  ears  in 
the  field,  which  have  been  tied  together  with  a  garland  of  flowers  and 
set  under  a  little  dais  of  tressed  leaves,  are  carried  to  the  garner  in  a 
procession,  surrounded  by  a  guard  of  honour.  And  they  who  celebrate 
the  feast,  youths  and  maidens,  promise  each  other  their  own  marriage. 
Parents  consult  the  learned  concerning  the  omens,  intermediaries  come 
and  go,  presents  are  offered  and  accepted  ceremoniously.  Then  the 
musicians  make  the  merry  marriage  music  to  resound  out  of  their 
bronze  instruments,  neighbours  and  friends  bring  gifts  for  the  wed¬ 
ding  banquet,  the  two  who  were  alone  in  longing,  far  from  one  another, 
sit  side  by  side  in  the  place  of  honour  crowned  with  flowers.  And  when 
once  more  the  marriage  of  the  Rice  is  celebrated,  proud  mothers  ap¬ 
pear  amongst  the  shy  girls  in  the  harvest  field.  At  last  year’s  feast  they 
carried  a  sheaf  of  rice-ears  in  their  arm ;  at  this,  they  carry  a  child. 


12  ISLAND-INDIA 

Thus  Inten  and  S  ameer  ah  had  held  their  wedding  feast  on  the  same 
day  in  the  same  year.  Not  knowing  about  each  other  and  what  had 
happened  to  each  other,  they  were  as  twin  sisters  in  fate,  even  as  they 
were  twin  sisters  in  form  and  face. 

But  when  the  next  harvest  of  the  rice  came,  Inten’s  companions 
mourned  for  her.  And  Sameerah’s  place  remained  empty  in  the  file  of 
young  women  walking  to  the  rice  field.  She  kept  within  the  house, 
empty-armed,  disgraced. 

Another  harvest  feast  came.  She  would  not  go  to  the  field  so  poor  as 
she  would  have  stood  there,  the  one  woman  childless  amongst  so  many 
mothers.  Her  husband  had  not  as  yet  reproached  her,  though  his 
mother  often  spoke  bitter  words.  But  when,  on  the  way  to  the  passar 
or  to  the  field,  she  saw  him  turn  his  head  to  look  after  a  woman  walking 
proudly  with  a  baby  in  her  carrying  scarf,  she  felt  her  heart  shrink  till 
her  breast  ached ;  and  in  the  night  her  sleeping-mat  would  be  wet  with 
tears.  A  good-natured  neighbour  had  advised  her  to  go  in  pilgrimage 
to  the  King  Eremite’s  tomb.  And  ah !  how  she  longed  to  go !  When  she 
went  out  at  the  village  gate  and  took  the  main  road,  her  eyes  would 
seek  the  distance,  where  the  hill-wood  was  dark  against  the  sky.  But 
her  husband’s  mother,  old  Mboq-Noordin,  kept  the  money  of  the  fam¬ 
ily,  and  Sameerah  did  not  dare  ask  for  any,  even  of  what  she  had 
earned  herself,  to  pay  for  the  journey  with  the  fire-car  to  Sangean; 
she  well  knew  she  should  meet  with  a  contemptuous  refusal. 

Mboq-Noordin  hated  her  with  a  hatred  that  grew  ever  bitterer;  as 
she  believed,  because  Sameerah  bore  her  no  grandchild,  but  of  a  truth 
because  Sameerah  was  unhappy  and  ashamed.  Even  as  the  fowls  in  the 
garden  hacked  with  sharp  beaks  at  a  sick  hen  till  the  wound  with  which 
it  would  have  hidden  itself  lay  open  and  bleeding — strong  healthy 
creatures  that  crowded  out  of  life  a  feeble  and  ailing  thing — thus  she 
with  her  contemptuous  glance  and  scornful  words  hacked  at  Samee¬ 
rah’s  barrenness.  Those  eyes,  always  cast  down  and  so  often  red  with 
crying,  that  timid  attitude,  goaded  her  into  a  venomous  rage.  She  could 
not  bear  that  poor  weak  sickly  thing  near  her,  she  wanted  it  gone  from 
the  world,  she  must  needs  thrust  at  it  with  the  sharpness  of  her  eyes 
and  her  voice,  with  words  that  were  like  the  sting  of  a  scorpion.  And 
because  of  the  evil  she  did  to  Sameerah  in  her  hatred,  she  hated  her  all 
the  more.  She  gave  Noordin  no  peace,  she  was  for  ever  begging  and 


Sameerah 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  13 

urging  him  to  repudiate  Sameerah — a  woman  whom  Tooan  Allah  re¬ 
jected,  whom  he  had  marked  with  the  shame  of  barrenness! 

In  her  wretchedness  Sameerah  at  last  plucked  up  courage  for  a 
deed.  One  day  when  Mboq-Noordin  and  Noordin  had  gone  together  to 
a  distant  passar,  she  stole  to  the  kind-hearted  neighbour  and  begged 
the  loan  of  a  little  money  for  the  journey  to  Sangean.  And  the  good 
woman  not  only  gave  her  the  money,  and  that  at  a  very  low  rate,  but 
when  Sameerah  said,  sadly,  that  Mboq-Noordin  had  taken  away  to  the 
passar  all  the  finest  fruits  in  the  garden,  and  had  counted  all  the  others 
one  by  one,  so  that  she  dared  not  take  a  single  one,  she  also  gave  her 
some  bananas  for  an  offering  upon  the  Saint’s  tomb,  and  even  some 
precious  balm  upon  a  leaf,  that  the  offering  might  be  the  more  accept¬ 
able. 

Sameerah  put  on  festive  raiment;  she  fastened  a  silver  pin  to  her 
kabaya,  an  oleander-blossom  in  her  hair.  On  the  village  road  she 
smiled  at  the  children.  Soon,  soon,  she  too  would  have  a  little  one  like 
that  in  her  arms!  Confidently  she  took  her  place  in  the  long  file  of 
women  walking  down  the  main  road  to  the  station.  But  a  suspicious 
fancy  had  caused  Mboq-Noordin  to  turn  back  on  her  way  to  the  passar. 
Suddenly  she  stood  before  her  daughter-in-law.  The  very  last  women 
in  the  file  heard  the  names  she  called  her,  in  so  loud  a  voice  did  she 
shriek  out  her  fury.  They  shook  their  heads  at  it;  Mboq-Noordin  in¬ 
sulted  her  son’s  wife  in  all  too  vile  a  manner,  truly.  And  there  were 
Hollanders  upon  the  highway  who  heard — did  she  never  notice  ?  It  was 
the  carriage  of  the  Tooan  Resident  that  drove  past  just  now. 

Stricken  dumb  with  terror  and  shame,  Sameerah  suffered  herself  to 
be  driven  back  home.  The  old  woman  threatened:  if  Noordin  heard 
what  she  had  secretly  dared  to  do,  he  would  grind  her  knees  against 
one  another  so  that  it  would  take  a  month  to  heal  the  wounds ;  he  would 
tie  her  to  a  post  of  the  house,  when  he  went  on  a  day’s  journey  again! 
Sameerah  answered  not  a  word;  not  even  with  a  look  did  she  defend 
herself.  Truly  there  was  no  need  for  the  mother-in-law  to  take  away 
her  good  clothes,  leaving  her  nothing  but  outworn  dingy  things  in 
which  no  decent  woman  would  show  herself  out  of  doors ;  there  was  no 
need  for  her  so  to  burden  Sameerah  with  toil  that  from  dawn  to  dusk 
she  found  no  time  even  to  go  to  the  river  where  the  women  bathed. 
Sameerah  felt  too  deeply  ashamed  at  that  public  humiliation  to  venture 


14  ISLAND-INDIA 

out  amongst  people.  She  hid  away  even  from  the  kind  neighbour  when 
she  went  to  pound  the  rice  in  the  back  garden :  she  had  heard  the  word 
Mboq-Noordin  threw  at  her,  over  the  hedge!  Within  the  house  she 
glided  along  the  walls  like  a  shadow.  Her  husband  and  his  mother 
hardly  knew  whether  she  was  or  was  not  there.  Noordin  but  rarely 
spoke  to  her ;  his  mother  never  but  to  give  her  harsh  words,  to  which  she 
had  no  answer.  By  and  by  she  lost  the  habit  of  speech. 

There  was  but  one  happy  moment  in  her  day:  at  dawn,  when  she 
went  to  feed  the  turtle-dove  that  sat  high  in  its  little  bamboo  cage  in 
the  cotton- tree  by  the  well.  Within  the  silent  house  Noordin  and 
Mboq-Noordin  still  lay  asleep.  On  the  darkling  jessamine  shrubs  that 
chilled  her  ankles  with  dew  as  she  brushed  past,  the  white  star-like 
blossoms  unfolded,  sending  forth  an  arrowy  fragrance.  As  she  loos¬ 
ened  and  paid  out  the  rope  and  the  cage  came  down,  dark,  and  swing¬ 
ing  a  little,  the  sky  into  which  she  looked  up  grew  ever  whiter.  The 
dove  sat  cowering,  benumbed  with  cold  and  darkness ;  she  held  the  little 
creature  to  her  throat,  bending  down  her  cheek  upon  it,  fondled  it, 
talked  baby-talk  to  it.  She  let  it  peck  grains  of  rice  from  her  finger-tips 
and  from  her  lips.  When,  with  a  last  caressing  touch  on  its  silky  feath¬ 
ers,  she  had  put  it  back  into  the  cage,  she  would  linger  to  see  how  it 
rejoiced  in  the  new  sunshine,  how  it  threw  out  its  downy  breast, 
preened  its  wings,  and,  its  black  eyes  all  aglisten,  turned  its  delicate 
little  head  hither  and  thither,  gracefully. 

She  heard  Mboq-Noordin’s  shrewish  voice;  hastily  she  hoisted  the 
cage  to  its  place  in  the  tree  and  hurried  into  the  house  to  prepare  the 
morning  meal.  The  villagers,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  stole 
along  the  hedge,  in  dingy  clothes,  her  hair  rough  and  carelessly  twisted, 
dull-eyed  and  dumb  always,  never  answering  even  a  word  of  friendly 
greeting,  said  amongst  each  other,  pitying  her,  that  her  great  sorrow 
had  darkened  her  mind.  And  perhaps  she  had  indeed,  as  the  unhappy 
days  went  on,  grown  to  be  different  from  other  people.  She  seemed  no 
longer  to  feel  Mboq-Noordin’s  taunts  and  cruelties,  nor  Noordin’s 
contempt,  which  sometimes  turned  to  rough  usage.  Her  face  grew  still 
and  rigid  as  the  countenance  of  the  stone  images  in  the  great  temple, 
the  Boro  Buddhur. 

At  sight  of  children,  only,  it  quickened.  Naked  little  ones,  toddling 
on  plump  legs,  played  at  the  garden  gate.  One  dangled  a  cockchafer 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  15 

tied  to  a  thread;  another  held  a  cricket  clutched  in  his  chubby  little 
fist,  and  laughed  to  see  it  angrily  grasping  with  its  hooked  feet  at  the 
blade  of  grass  with  which  he  tickled  it ;  a  third  had  a  bow  made  of  a 
shred  of  palm  leaf  and  fibre  twisted  into  a  string,  which  made  a  shrill 
whirring  sound  as  he  swung  it  through  the  air  with  a  twirl,  as  he  had 
seen  his  big  brother  do. 

Sameerah  softly  crept  nearer.  What  chagrin  it  was  to  her  that  she 
had  nothing  to  tempt  a  baby  with,  no  flower,  no  fruit,  no  piece  of 
sweetmeat !  Her  arms  ached  with  longing  for  such  a  smooth  soft  little 
body.  With  a  beseeching  smile  and  hands  outstretched  she  squatted 
down  before  the  child.  It  stood  still  and  looked  at  her  dubiously.  An 
anxious  voice  called  it;  it  toddled  away,  never  looking  back.  Sameerah 
stole  away,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  Afterward  she  was  even  duller  and 
more  listless  than  usually. 

But  that  passive  and  silent  obedience  gradually  began  to  chafe 
Noordin  even  worse  than  his  mother’s  ceaseless  urging  of  a  divorce. 
And  one  evening — it  was  the  third  rice-harvest  after  the  wedding — 
when  handsome  Sedoot,  the  Hadji  money-lender’s  daughter,  had 
smiled  at  him,  standing  between  the  sheaves  on  her  father’s  field,  he 
came  home  with  an  evil  look  in  his  eyes. 

Sameerah  had  been  doing  rough  work,  late  as  it  was  in  the  day. 
There  was  dust  on  her  unkempt  hair ;  her  sarong,  which  she  had  gath¬ 
ered  up  and  fastened  under  her  naked  arms,  hung  slovenly  about  her. 
With  eyes  cast  down  she  set  the  evening  meal  before  her  husband.  He 
thrust  her  away. 

“Thy  face  irks  me!  Get  thee  gone!  Leave  my  house!” 

Frightened,  she  looked  into  his  scowling  face. 

But  Mboq-Noordin  pounced  upon  her,  seizing  her  by  the  arm. 
“Why  tarriest,  thou?  Dost  thou  not  hear  what  my  son  says?”  She 
feared  that  perhaps  he  might  forget  his  anger  if  the  divorce  had  to 
wait  for  the  Modin  and  his  decision.  As  Sameerah  stood  there  in  her 
beggarly  clothes,  tired  out  with  labour,  empty-handed,  she  thrust  her 
out  of  the  house. 

She  stood  all  alone  on  the  empty  village  road.  It  was  almost  night. 

She  never  hesitated,  never  turned  her  head.  Thoughtlessly  sure  as 
one  who  walks  in  his  sleep,  she  went  out  at  the  village  gate  and  took 
the  road  to  the  Sacred  Grove. 


16  ISLAND-INDIA 

It  is  a  way  of  many  miles  from  Soombertingghi  to  Sangean.  She 
walked  all  night.  She  went  on  without  resting;  she  felt  no  fatigue.  It 
was  dark  at  first  and  lonely ;  she  never  knew.  Then  it  grew  light,  and 
the  highway  was  full  of  people ;  she  never  knew.  She  knew  of  one  thing 
only :  of  her  longing  for  the  miraculous  tomb  where  she  would  find  hap¬ 
piness.  The  desire  was  as  an  inmost  spot  of  smarting  life  within  her,  all 
around  it  numb,  dead. 

It  was  passar  day  at  Sangean.  From  all  the  villages  of  the  neigh¬ 
bourhood,  market  folk  were  on  their  way.  Along  the  footpath  on  either 
side  of  the  wide  road,  where  bullock-carts  were  slowly  jolting  on  and 
horsemen  cantered  past,  long  files  of  women  walked,  bearing  on  their 
heads  flat  baskets  heaped  with  fruit  and  confectionery,  or  carrying  on 
their  hips  bundles  of  sarongs  and  scarves.  Each  had  a  baby  in  her  car¬ 
rying-scarf;  children  trotted  after  them;  their  ceaseless  chatter  about 
goods  and  prices  made  a  sound  like  a  brooklet  clucking.  The  men 
walked  with  arms  swinging  idly,  at  leisure.  Many  carried  a  pigeon  in 
a  small  cage  overspread  with  a  silk  kerchief ;  a  match  of  singing  doves 
was  to  be  held  at  the  passar.  Every  man  praised  his  bird’s  voice,  but 
they  whispered  about  the  goldsmith  of  Sangean,  who  made  a  practice 
of  passing  over  his  dove’s  bill  and  tongue  a  golden  ring  on  which  magic 
characters  were  graven,  in  order  to  give  her  a  fine  voice ;  was  not  it  sure 
to  be  the  winner  ? 

As  they  overtook  S  ameer  ah,  who  walked  ever  more  slowly,  men 
and  women  and  even  children  turned  the  head  to  look  at  her,  wondering 
at  this  woman  who  was  going  the  way  to  the  passar  empty-handed  and 
so  dirty  and  poorly  dressed,  and  whose  dull  eyes  had  a  look  as  if  they 
did  not  see.  They  pointed  her  out  to  one  another :  “Eh!  a  crazy  woman!” 

The  Resident  and  his  lady  drove  past  on  their  daily  morning  tour, 
in  the  gleaming  carriage  with  the  tall  Australian  horses.  At  the  ap¬ 
proaching  hoof-beat  native  horsemen  dismounted,  drivers  of  bullock- 
carts  guided  their  team  to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  horde  of  pedes¬ 
trians  squatted  down  in  the  dust.  And  the  Resident  too  looked  with 
amazement  at  the  native  woman,  continuing  her  way,  all  alone, 
through  the  humbly  motionless  crowd ;  and  he  too  judged  that  she  must 
be  of  diseased  mind.  Even  Elizabeth  almost  thought  so,  as,  stirred  by  a 
faint  remembrance,  she  looked  back  at  the  pitiable  figure,  wandering 
alone  with  failing  gait. 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  17 

Sameerah  never  saw,  nor  heard,  nor  felt.  As  the  river  flows  past  a 
stone  that  in  flood-time  has  been  washed  down  from  the  green  bank 
and  left  on  a  sandy  shallow,  where  not  one  of  the  countless  wavelets 
quickens  it  into  new  freshness  and  sprouting  greenery,  while  dry  and 
dead  it  lies  in  the  scorching  heat  of  the  sun — so  that  full  river  of  human 
beings,  with  all  their  desires  and  energies  and  joys,  flowed  past  her 
without  stirring  her  to  a  single  emotion.  The  market  folk  overtook  her, 
passed,  disappeared  into  the  distant  flicker  of  sunlight  between  the 
shadows  of  the  tamarinds  on  either  side  the  highway.  The  last  had 
vanished  as  she  attained  the  steep  that  ascends  to  the  tomb  in  the  grove. 

Out  of  the  deep  shadow  it  shone  on  her,  all  alight  with  flowers.  She 
stretched  forth  her  arms,  and  sank  against  it. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  wood.  The  multitudinous  jubilation  of  song 
that  had  burst  out  in  the  enrapturing  red  of  dawn  had  fallen  silent 
before  the  ever  higher,  ever  hotter  ascent  of  the  sun  over  the  tree-tops. 
No  least  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  leafage.  The  murmuring  of  the 
spring  was  all  but  inaudible.  A  cool  smell  rose  out  of  it,  the  smell 
of  water  over  stones,  which  lured  the  butterflies.  Big  black-and-yellow 
ones,  like  a  play  of  sunshine  amidst  shadows,  and  crowds  of  very  tiny 
ones,  coloured  a  dull  and  tender  blue,  came  fluttering  and  drank. 
Others  alighted  upon  the  harvest  of  flowers  heaped  up  on  the  tomb, 
their  little  airy  shadows  gliding  over  Sameerah’s  head,  sunk  back 
among  the  flowers,  over  her  closed  eyelids.  For  a  long  while  she  lay 
thus,  motionless. 

But  then  a  sound  broke  upon  the  great  silence  which  awakened  her 
dull  senses:  very  softly,  a  turtle  cooed  in  the  kambodja-tree  over  her 
head.  It  was  the  singing  dove  belonging  to  Marjoos  of  Sangean,  the 
little  son  of  the  dalang,  the  poet-musician,  who,  of  an  evening,  would 
recite  so  many  and  beautiful  poems  about  the  Sacred  Grove  and  its 
nymphs  and  good  genii.  The  small  boy  kept  his  bird  in  the  kambodja- 
tree,  hidden  away  from  every  one.  He  secretly  took  to  it  carefully  se¬ 
lected  food,  and  water  out  of  the  sacred  well,  every  morning  when  he 
drove  the  buffalo  herd  of  the  village  to  the  pasture  on  the  yonder  side 
of  the  wood.  Thorny  twigs  and  bunches  of  prickly  leaves,  twisted 
around  the  branch  on  which  the  cage  was  hung,  kept  off  small  beasts 
of  prey  that  climb  the  trees;  the  kambodja  leafage  screened  it  from 


18 


ISLAND-INDIA 


peering  eyes.  Marjoos  himself  could  not  discover  it  when,  on  going,  he 
lingered  yet  a  little  while  among  the  bushes  to  listen  to  the  contented 
cooing  and  crooning  of  his  little  songster. 

It  was  the  hour  when  he  was  wont  to  come;  the  turtle  was  calling 
for  him. 

It  seemed  to  Sameerah  that  she  heard  her  own  dove.  Her  poor  heart, 
which  had  kept  itself  close  shut  for  so  long,  because  nothing  ever  came 
near  but  to  hurt  it,  unfolded.  And  as,  with  a  dawning  smile,  she  lis¬ 
tened  to  that  gentle  cooing,  all  the  manifold  pleasantness  of  the  wood 
softly  stole  upon  her  quickening  perception.  She  breathed  the  subtle 
scent  of  water  and  cool  moist  earth,  of  leafage  in  damp  shadow,  of 
flowers  just  blooming,  out  of  which  the  first  whiff  of  odour  ascended 
together  with  the  vanishing  dews  of  night ;  she  gazed  at  the  butterflies 
that  sat  drinking  on  the  wet  stones  on  the  brink  of  the  bubbling  spring, 
wings  tremulously  erect,  and  suddenly  fluttered  away,  through  sun¬ 
beams  and  airy  shadows ;  she  gazed  at  the  flowers  here  and  there,  small 
specks  of  clear  colour  shining  through  the  green  dimness  of  the  wood. 
She  heard  a  woodpecker  hammering  and  sought  and  found  the  green 
bird  amongst  the  green  leaves ;  his  head,  hastily  hammering,  flickered 
like  a  green  jewel.  Two  squirrels,  chasing  each  other  along  the  branches 
of  a  kenaree-tree — they  had  paused  in  their  game  of  flight  and  pursuit 
at  her  coming,  but  begun  again  when  they  saw  her  so  very  quiet — leapt 
and  darted  athwart  the  lightly  stirred  leafage,  out  of  which  the  ripe 
nuts  fell  down  with  a  soft  rustle.  The  grey  monkeys,  to  which  the  coun¬ 
try  folk  bring  sacrifices,  came;  as  usually,  the  women  going  to  the  pas- 
sar  had  laid  down  fruits  for  them  on  the  open  space  before  the  tomb. 
They  suffered  the  mothers  to  go  first,  who  carried  their  little  ones 
hanging  to  their  breasts,  the  tiny  hands  grasping  their  fur,  the  small 
heads,  with  the  pale,  naked  ears,  pressed  to  their  dugs.  The  troop 
waited  patiently  whilst  those  who  gave  food  fed  themselves.  Not  as  a 
thought,  as  a  sensation  only,  indistinct,  but  deep  and  strong,  there 
welled  up  in  Sameerah  an  assurance  of  happiness,  of  which  there  was 
enough  in  the  world  for  her  too.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  come  soon. 
Here  in  the  Sacred  Grove,  at  the  tomb  of  the  good  prince  who,  of  his 
loving-kindness,  had  conferred  happiness  upon  so  many  unhappy  ones 
— here  it  would  come  to  her.  She  must  adorn  herself  for  it  as  girls  in 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  19 

harvest-time  adorn  themselves  for  coming  happiness,  as  a  bride  adorns 
herself  for  her  bridegroom.  She  must  be  cleanly  and  crowned  with 
flowers. 

She  rose  and,  descending  into  the  sacred  well,  bathed.  Then,  going 
hither  and  thither  wherever  a  flower  shone,  she  gathered  all  she  could 
find.  And  returning  to  the  tomb  with  her  arms  full  of  buds  and  blos¬ 
soms,  she  sat  down  in  the  kambodja  shade  and  began  to  weave  a  gar¬ 
land.  It  grew  into  circlets  that  fitted  her  arms  a  little  way  under  the 
shoulder,  at  the  place  where  a  bride  wears  the  solemn  ornament.  And 
then  she  made  smaller  wreaths  for  her  wrists ;  then  a  necklace  so  long 
that  it  went  around  her  neck  thrice,  as  a  bride’s  necklace  does,  all  but 
covering  her  shoulders  and  hanging  down  over  her  bosom,  strand  un¬ 
der  flowery  strand.  Finding  a  long  trailing  spray  on  which  clusters  of 
purple  chalices  shone,  she  bent  it  around  her  brow  like  a  diadem.  And 
still  her  lap  was  full  of  flowers,  and  out  of  the  kambodja  branches  more 
flowers  fell  down  upon  her  and  all  around  her — great  white  blossoms 
that  lay  lustrous  among  the  shadows  of  the  sparse-set  rosettes  of 
pointed  leaves  overhead.  She  picked  up  one  and,  inhaling  its  subtly 
sweet  scent,  set  it  in  the  deep  fold  of  the  sarong  between  her  breasts. 
Her  hair  had  slid  out  of  its  coil.  As  she  felt  it  gliding  over  her  shoulder, 
she  spread  it  all  around  her  and  with  deft  finger-tips  hung  among  the 
long  black  tresses  small  flowers  and  leaflets  and  softly  clinging  rose 
petals  and  jessamine  buds  that  had  fluttered  out  of  the  sacrificial 
wreaths  on  the  tomb,  until  as  she  gazed  down  upon  it  the  flower- 
spangled  darkness  looked  to  her  like  a  rich  black  silk  scarf  cunningly 
wrought  with  pelangi-work  in  purple,  white,  blue,  and  green,  such  as 
in  the  happy  days  of  long  ago  she  herself  had  made  and  proudly  worn. 
Meet  ornament  it  seemed  to  her  for  the  feast  of  her  life. 

Suddenly  the  dove  in  the  kambod j a- tree  uttered  a  loud,  joyful  note, 
then  was  silent.  Marjoos  had  come. 

With  eager  hands  the  small  boy  loosed  the  knot  by  which  the  cage 
hung.  The  hour  had  come  to  match  his  pet  against  the  singing  doves  of 
all  the  countryside.  He  had  seen  the  goldsmith  going  to  the  passar, 
with  his  dove  in  a  cage  under  a  red  silk  kerchief,  and  that  golden  ring 
of  his  with  the  magic  characters  on  his  finger.  Ah !  would  not  the  virtue 
of  the  Sacred  Grove  prove  more  potent?  As,  carefully  shielding  the 
cage,  he  made  his  way  through  the  undergrowth  around  the  kambodja, 


20  ISLAND-INDIA 

Marjoos  rapidly  recited  once  more  the  invocation  with  which  suppli¬ 
ants  implore  aid  from  the  Sultan-Hermit  and  from  the  most  gracious 
of  all  gentle  genii,  the  Princess-in-the-Forest. 

He  emerged  in  the  open  space  by  the  tomb,  and  stood  still,  startled. 
There,  in  a  robe  of  flowers,  and  with  a  crown  of  purple  flowers  on  her 
head,  sat  the  Princess-in-the-Forest!  Rapt  in  her  dream,  Sameerah  had 
not  heard  the  slight  rustle  among  the  bushes.  But  before  her  cast-down 
eyes  a  shadow  appeared  upon  the  sunlit  ground — the  motionless 
shadow  of  a  child  with  a  bird-cage  in  his  hand,  and,  behind  the  delicate 
little  shadows  of  the  trellis,  the  shadow  of  a  dove  turning  hither  and 
thither  its  head  and  ruffling  its  feathers.  She  looked  up. 

At  that  deep  still  gaze  Marjoos  felt  his  heart  give  a  great  throb  and 
stand  still.  With  a  sobbing  gasp  for  breath  he  fled. 

The  highway  was  empty.  Never  daring  to  look  back,  he  ran  until  he 
reached  the  passar.  There,  plucking  up  courage  again  at  the  sight  of  so 
many  people,  and  of  his  father  seated  within  the  ring  of  onlookers  and 
bettors  at  the  match  of  the  singing  doves,  he  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  and,  trembling  and  panting,  stammered  out  the  story  of  his 
wonderful  adventure. 

In  an  instant  it  had  spread  all  over  the  passar.  Men  and  women  left 
their  talk,  their  meal,  and  their  chaffering  to  hear  it  with  their  own 
ears  from  the  lips  of  Marjoos,  who  had  to  repeat  it  again  and  again  as 
he  stood  there  within  the  ring  of  pigeon  fanciers,  forgetful  of  their 
birds  and  their  bets.  The  crowd  hesitated  between  eager  belief  and 
contemptuous  disbelief,  some  saying  with  a  shrug  that  this  was  the 
mere  day-dream  of  a  good-for-nothing  boy  who  had  idled  away  his 
morning  in  the  wood  instead  of  minding  the  buffaloes ;  and  others  con¬ 
tending  that  nevertheless  such  things  had  been,  and  why  should  not 
Marjoos  be  favoured  with  a  sight  of  the  heavenly  one,  good  little  lad 
as  he  was,  and  a  son  moreover  to  the  Dalang,  the  learned  one,  well 
versed  in  secret  lore,  who  had  by  heart,  and  sang  passing  well,  so  many 
and  beautiful  poems  in  praise  of  the  divine  batikker  for  whose  sake 
flowers  bloom  in  the  Sacred  Grove — even  the  Princess-in-the-Forest? 

Suddenly  some  one  cried  that  he  was  going  to  make  sure;  and  at 
once  a  score  of  people  were  with  him  on  the  way  to  the  wood.  Then  all 
the  passar  followed — folk  of  Sangean,  folk  of  Djalang  Tiga,  folk  of 
Soombertingghi,  men,  women,  and  the  smallest  of  small  children  that 


Sameerah  in  the  Sacred  Grove 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  21 

could  walk  alone,  all  hastened  toward  the  Sacred  Grove.  The  Modin 
was  amongst  the  crowd,  the  regulator-of-hours  at  the  Mosque,  who 
used  to  shake  his  head  in  so  grave  a  disapproval  at  tales  of  genii  and 
nymphs  haunting  the  wood.  And,  followed  by  his  servant,  who  carried 
the  box  of  condiments  for  sirih-chewing,  the  Assistant  Wedana  led  the 
way,  a  scion  of  a  most  noble  family.  From  the  Kawedanan,  whither  a 
clerk,  sent  out  to  enquire  about  the  cause  of  the  turmoil  on  the  passar, 
had  brought  the  tidings,  the  Wedana  himself  came  hurrying  on  horse¬ 
back.  He  whipped  up  his  pony,  much  disquieted  by  these  extraordi¬ 
nary  events  and  desirous  of  obtaining  immediate  certainty  that  no  harm 
could  come  thereof,  nor  anything  for  which  who  could  tell  but  he  might 
be  held  responsible,  as  having  authority  over  the  native  population  of 
the  district?  Gathering  volume  as  it  went,  like  some  rivulet  swelling  to 
a  river  as  from  either  side  brooks  come  pouring  into  it,  the  crowd, 
swelled  by  groups  hastening  toward  it  out  of  fields  and  houses,  had 
become  a  multitude  before  its  leaders  reached  the  Sacred  Grove. 


Mboq-Inten,  who,  holding  little  Kai'ran  by  the  hand,  and  followed  by 
Paq-Inten,  was  coming  down  the  road  from  Djalang  Tiga,  bearing  a 
flower-offering  for  the  Sultan-Hermit’s  tomb,  stood  aside,  amazed, 
from  the  approach  of  the  Tooan  Wedana,  the  Assistant  Wedana,  and 
the  Modin.  As  soon  as,  for  good  manners,  she  dared,  she  asked  a 
passer-by  for  what  cause  all  these  many  people,  leaving  the  passar,  too, 
were  going  to  the  Sacred  Grove. 

“Eh!  hast  thou  not  heard,  Mother-of-Inten,  that  the  Princess-in- 
the-Forest  is  there?  Marjoos  the  Dalang’s  son  saw  her,  sitting  by  the 
Sultan’s  tomb,  all  clothed  in  flowers  and  crowned  with  flowers  like  a 
bride.” 

Mboq-Inten  uttered  a  cry  that  made  the  hastening  throng  to  stand 
still  and  look  up  with  startled  faces.  “Not  the  Princess-in-the-Forest, 
not  the  Princess-in-the-Forest,  but  Inten,  Inten,  my  dear  daughter, 
come  back  to  me  at  last!”  Sobbing  and  laughing,  the  tears  running 
down  her  face  as  again  and  again  she  called  out  Inten’s  name  in  a  des¬ 
perate  jubilation,  the  old  woman,  catching  her  grandchild  up  to  her 


22  ISLAND-INDIA 

breast,  ran  up  the  hill  with  the  light-footed  speed  of  a  girl.  Sameerah, 
awakened  from  her  dreamy  trance  by  that  sudden  multitude  that  filled 
the  forest  with  a  rumour  as  of  surging  waters,  sat  gazing  wide-eyed, 
slowly  paling  under  her  purple  crown.  Hundreds  of  faces  were  bent 
upon  her.  She  put  both  hands  over  her  eyes  and  shrank  back  into  her¬ 
self,  bowing  down  so  deeply  as  all  but  to  disappear  under  her  hair, 
which  fell  forward  in  a  soft  cloud  of  flower-starred  darkness. 

But  even  as  it  vanished  Mboq-Inten  had  recognized  the  face  which, 
throughout  the  days  and  the  nights  of  three  long  years,  had  smiled 
upon  her  steadfast  hope.  And,  falling  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  that 
cowering  shape,  she  seized  Sameerah  in  both  arms  and  through  flowers 
and  locks  kissed  her  forehead  and  eyes  and  cheeks  with  passionately 
tender  kisses,  saying  over  and  over  again  the  same  words  of  endear¬ 
ment:  “O  Inten,  O  my  child,  O  my  heart’s  jewel,  at  last,  at  last,  at  last 
thou  art  come!  Alas,  wherefore  didst  thou  not  return  at  once  to  thy 
mother?  I  have  been  longing  for  thee  these  three  long  years!”  And, 
raising  in  both  hands  the  face,  from  which  she  gently  put  the  hair  back, 
she  gazed  into  the  shy  eyes,  and  began  again  to  weep  for  happiness.  “In 
no  wise  art  thou  changed,  my  little  golden  daughter!  Ah!  I  cannot 
satiate  my  old  eyes  with  the  sight  of  thee !  How  have  I  longed,  all  these 
many  years,  to  feel  thee  again,  thus,  close  against  me!  Of  a  truth,  child 
of  my  heart,  I  would  not  have  remained  alive,  after  thou  hadst  died; 
nay,  I  myself  too  would  have  died  of  sorrow,  but  for  the  dream  of  thy 
return  which  Tooan  Allah  sent  me.  Thus,  thus  I  saw  thee  in  my  dream, 
crowned  like  a  bride,  here,  on  this  very  spot — waiting  for  me  and  for 
thy  child.  Behold  him,  my  Inten!  look  upon  him!  Thou  didst  not  see 
him  when  thou  broughtest  him  forth,  thou  my  poor  one!  thy  eyes  were 
dark  with  death,  already.  Rejoice  in  him  now!  Is  he  not  tall  and  hand¬ 
some?” 

She  had  set  Kairan  in  Sameerah’s  lap ;  shy  and  half  afraid,  he  looked 
at  the  strange  woman.  Smiling  out  of  tear-dimmed  eyes,  Mboq-Inten 
gazed  upon  the  two. 

“Well?  What  does  Kairan  say  to  his  sweet  mother?” 

Sameerah’s  arms  closed  round  the  child,  round  the  soft  little  body 
that  felt  warm  against  her  breast.  She  did  not  think,  she  did  not  at¬ 
tempt  to  understand  or  to  guess,  she  did  not  even  wonder — this  small 
creature  that  she  was  pressing  against  her  was  her  child.  Her  lips  that 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  23 

had  forgotten  speech  began  to  murmur  softly.  “So  sweet!”  she  whis¬ 
pered,  “so  sweet!” 

Kairan  took  courage.  He  thought  of  the  many  things  that  had  been 
promised  him  for  Mother’s  return.  Between  vanishing  shyness  and  be¬ 
ginning  confidence  he  peeped  up  at  her  from  under  his  eyelashes. 
“What  has  Mother  brought  Kairan?” 

A  deep  laughter  welled  up  into  Sameerah’s  throat,  a  light  broke 
from  her  eyes.  “Say  that  again,  ah!  do  say  that  again,  my  little  heart — 
say  ‘Mother’  to  me!” 

Somewhat  confused  and  doubtingly  the  child  obeyed.  “Mother!” 
Then  hastily:  “Has  Mother  brought  Kairan  a  dove?”  For,  even  now 
upon  the  highway,  Mboq-Inten,  who  could  not  get  him  away  from  the 
caged  turtle  of  a  passer-by,  had  promised  that  Mother  would  bring 
him  one  when  she  came  home. 

She  said,  laughing  proudly:  “He  is  so  clever,  the  little  one!  He 
remembers  everything!  So  thou  wert  too,  my  child,  wise  from  childhood 
onward.  He  is  like  thee  in  all  things.” 

Sameerah  looked  at  the  woman  who  had  put  the  child  in  her  lap  so 
kindly;  gratefully  she  smiled  at  her. 

Mboq-Inten  took  her  hand  and  stroked  her  own  face  with  it.  “Do 
thou  also  say  ‘Mother,  dear  Mother,’  now.  Dost  know  thou  hast  not  yet 
greeted  me  with  a  single  little  word,  my  child?” 

Will-less  and  happy,  Sameerah  repeated:  “Mother!  dear  Mother!” 

Mboq-Inten  turned  toward  the  multitude.  “Be  witness,  all  of  ye, 
that  Inten  has  recognized  me,  and  that  she  has  recognized  her  child! 
Come,  Paq-Inten!  come  hither!  Here  is  our  daughter.” 

The  people  stood  silent.  They  were  at  a  loss  what  to  think.  W as  this 
not,  indeed,  Inten,  having  Inten’s  face,  Inten’s  shape?  There  were 
many  folk  from  Djalang  Tiga  who  had  known  Inten  from  a  child,  and 
women  who  had  seen  her  die,  and  men  who  had  carried  her  to  the  grave. 
But  none  the  less,  there  they  beheld  her,  even  as  it  had  been  prophesied 
that  they  would  behold  her,  crowned  with  flowers  like  a  bride,  sitting 
by  the  tomb  in  the  Sacred  Grove;  they  beheld  her  living  and  smiling, 
holding  in  her  arms  Kairan  as  her  child,  and  herself  held  in  Mboq- 
Inten’s  arms,  as  in  her  mother’s  arms  a  daughter.  No  nymph  of  the 
woods  this,  as  Marjoos  had  believed  and  still  maintained,  all  but  crying 


24  ISLAND-INDIA 

with  disappointment;  no  heavenly  apparition,  but  in  very  deed  and 
truth  Inten,  risen  from  the  grave ! 

There  were,  indeed,  people  from  Soombertingghi  too,  who  had  heard 
Mboq-Noordin’s  frightened  exclamation,  “It  is  Sameerah!”  as,  to¬ 
gether  with  Noordin  and  Sedoot,  they  hastily  fled  out  of  the  wood.  But 
in  that  smiling  happy  one,  a  mother  and  a  daughter,  caressing  and  ca¬ 
ressed,  none  recognized  poor  lonely  Sameerah  whose  eyes  were  always 
red  with  weeping,  and  who  shrank  so  shyly  from  Mboq-Noordin’s  re¬ 
viling  ;  in  that  radiant  apparition,  flower-crowned  and  clad  in  flowers, 
was  to  be  traced  no  likeness  to  the  wretched  sloven  toiling  in  Noordin’s 
house.  And  they  too  thought  this  must  be  the  fair  one  who  in  the  happy 
days  of  her  girlhood  was  Sameerah’s  counterpart — even  that  same 
Inten  who  used  to  be  hailed  by  Sameerah’s  name,  being  so  like  her. 
Many  miracles  had  happened  at  the  Sultan-Hermit’s  tomb :  why,  then, 
not  this  one  of  Inten  returning  from  the  grave  ? 

So  that  as  Paq-Inten,  irresolute  and  something  afraid,  came  for¬ 
ward,  the  crowd  urging  him  on  encouragingly,  every  one  expected  him 
to  declare:  “This  is,  truly,  my  daughter  Inten.”  He  saw  it.  And,  in  his 
heart,  he  had  thought  of  how  he  should  fare  if,  in  presence  of  so  many 
people  and  of  the  headman  of  the  village  and  of  the  Wedana  himself, 
he  dared  to  gainsay  Mboq-Inten — Mboq-Inten  who  brought  such  a 
great  deal  of  money  into  the  house,  and  managed  the  household  so  ex¬ 
ceedingly  well,  and  had  her  way  in  all  things  and  with  every  one !  And 
at  the  same  time  he  reflected  that,  with  so  fair  a  daughter  in  the  house, 
he  should  not  have  to  wait  much  longer  for  a  son-in-law  who  would 
help  him  in  the  field.  And  as,  with  these  many  thoughts  in  his  mind,  he 
looked  at  the  young  woman  whom  Mboq-Inten  was  holding  in  her  em¬ 
brace,  he  said  in  all  sincerity:  “Truly,  this  is  Inten! — Come,  our  daugh¬ 
ter,  come  home  with  us,  and  we  will  prepare  a  feast  and  offer  up  a 
sacrifice  to  the  spirits,  in  order  that  all  our  friends  and  thy  playmates 
of  past  days  may  rejoice  with  us  over  thy  return  from  the  Land  of 
Shadows.” 

He  raised  her.  Then  all  saw  how  fair  she  was  as,  with  Kairan  in  her 
arms  and  smiling  for  happiness,  she  stood  in  the  mantle  of  her  long 
hair  all  pranked  and  pied  with  flowers  and  about  her  brow  the  purple 
radiance  of  her  wreath,  that  shone  transparent  in  the  sunlight.  No 
wonder,  said  more  than  one,  that  Marjoos  should  have  believed  her  to 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  25 

be  a  nymph,  a  Widadari!  She  was  fair  as  the  bride  of  the  God  of  Love ! 
Joyfully  the  villagers  of  Djalang  Tiga  formed  into  a  procession  to 
conduct  her  home. 


But,  suddenly,  all  changed. 

The  Wedana,  able  no  longer  to  bear  the  sense  of  his  responsibility 
and  his  anxiety  as  to  the  possible  results  of  the  affair  to  himself — how 
carefully  he  had  to  watch  over  the  chances  of  a  promotion,  hoped  for, 
ah!  for  how  long  a  time,  which  of  a  certainty  would  be  ruined  if 
there  occurred  any  disturbance  whatsoever  in  his  district! — the  We¬ 
dana  had  ridden  to  the  Resident  in  hot  haste,  mercilessly  whipping  up 
his  pony  and  muttering  incantations  all  the  while  to  make  it  carry  him 
more  swiftly  than  the  wind.  And  the  day  was  a  lucky  one!  He  was 
hardly  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  Sacred  Grove  when  he  saw  the  gleam¬ 
ing  carriage,  with  the  police  mandoor  on  the  box,  the  yellow  of  his  uni¬ 
form  all  ashine,  and  the  pair  of  tall  horses,  powerfully  trotting,  come 
down  the  road  in  a  whirling  cloud  of  dust.  Hastily  dismounting,  he 
stood  bareheaded  by  the  roadside,  where  the  Kandjeng  Resident’s  gaze 
might  fall  on  him.  Ah!  what  to  say  now,  so  that  even  the  faintest  sem¬ 
blance  of  a  fault  might  be  far  from  him? 

The  tall  horses  stopped;  he  heard  the  imperious  voice.  Eyes  cast 
down,  he  stammered.  And  the  day  was  lucky  indeed!  The  Kandjeng 
Resident  laughed.  The  Wedana  risked  a  stealthy  glance  and  felt  the 
thumping  of  his  heart  abate.  The  Njonja  Besar  was  with  the  Kand¬ 
jeng.  She  greeted  him  with  a  kindly  look. 

Being  a  prudent  man,  the  Wedana  had  never  let  any  Hollander 
perceive  that  he  knew  Dutch;  and  he  modestly  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  and  waited  as  one  who  lets  alien  sounds  go  past  him,  and  does 
not  desire  to  know  more  than  his  betters  judge  meet  that  he  should 
know,  whilst,  entirely  reassured,  he  heard  the  Resident  say  to  his  lady 
that,  really,  only  in  a  district  like  Sangean,  all  overshadowed  with  leg¬ 
ends  and  superstition,  was  a  thing  like  this  possible:  that  a  street- 
dancer  adorning  herself  for  a  feast  in  a  secluded  spot  should  by  a  little 
buffalo-herd  be  worshipped  for  a  nymph,  and  embraced  for  her  daugh¬ 
ter,  risen  from  the  grave,  by  an  old  mother  who  for  many  years  had 


26  ISLAND-INDIA 

mourned  that  daughter’s  death.  To  the  cursory  question  about  this 
foolish  old  woman’s  name  the  Wedana  said,  boldly,  Mboq-Inten  from 
Djalang  Tiga,  a  village  just  outside  the  boundary  of  his  district.  And 
as  to  the  woman  in  the  wood,  some  believed  her  to  be  Sameerah  from 
Soombertingghi,  Noordin’s  wife,  who  for  this  long  time  past  had  been 
said  to  be  darkened  in  mind,  being  childless  and  greatly  despised  on 
account  of  this. 

Elizabeth  uttered  an  exclamation  at  the  two  names.  Oh,  truly  a 
miracle  at  the  tomb  of  the  royal  Saint,  this  happy  illusion  that  so  gra¬ 
ciously  saved  two  lives  lost  to  wretchedness  already,  and  of  two  sadly 
solitary  ones  made  a  mother  and  a  daughter !  But  the  Resident,  who  at 
first  had  indulgently  shrugged  his  shoulders,  frowned  at  a  sudden  re¬ 
flection.  Was  this  child’s  talk  about  a  woman  risen  from  the  grave  as 
harmless  as  it  appeared?  He  thought  of  disturbances  that  had  origi¬ 
nated  in  a  similar  tale  of  wonder — refusal  to  pay  taxes  and  to  obey 
orders  at  the  behest  of  one  risen  from  the  dead,  attempts  at  the  over¬ 
throw  of  lawful  authority  in  favour  of  some  descendant  of  a  Sultan’s 
family,  extinct  long  since.  He  would  crush  the  dangerous  folly  in  the 
germ. 

As  if  she  felt  a  menace  to  her  new- won  happiness  at  the  approach  of 
that  tall,  white-clad  man  with  the  severe  face  advancing  through  the 
crowd  of  natives,  who  as  they  made  room  for  him,  timorously  squatted 
down,  Mboq-Inten  retreated  toward  the  tomb;  and,  sitting  down  at 
the  foot,  she  took  into  her  lap  her  whom  she  would  have  for  her  daugh¬ 
ter,  thus  proclaiming  and  maintaining  her  right  to  her  in  presence  of  all 
the  village  folk  and  of  the  Wedana  and  of  the  Kandjeng  Resident  him¬ 
self. 

Elizabeth  touched  her  husband’s  arm.  It  was  she,  it  was  the  poor 
brain-sick  wanderer  on  the  highway  of  that  morning,  crazed  perhaps 
by  who  could  tell  what  unbearable  sorrow  from  which  she  was  seeking 
deliverance  at  the  tomb  of  the  merciful  Saint;  it  was  the  weeping  one 
whom  she  had  seen  ill-treated  by  the  cruel  old  woman — the  despised 
childless  wife,  smiling  now  with  a  child  in  her  arms !  And  her  hand  upon 
her  husband’s  arm,  her  eyes  upon  his,  implored:  “Suffer  these  roses  of 
imagination  to  become  daily  bread,  to  live  by!” 

But  with  an  impatient  gesture  he  warded  off  the  unspoken  prayer. 
No  indulgence  toward  such  superstitions,  no  weak  shirking  of  the 


THREE  WOMEN  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE  27 

ruler’s  duty  to  maintain  the  established  order  in  spiritual  things  as  well 
as  in  material. 

He  addressed  Mboq-Inten  severely.  “How  dost  thou  dare,  ancient 
one !  to  say  this  woman  is  thy  daughter,  whereas  all  men  and  women  in 
thy  village  know  that  she  died  in  child-birth,  three  years  ago  now,  and 
the  men  are  here  who  buried  her?  Enough  of  this  folly!  Let  this 
stranger  go,  and  do  thou  return  to  thy  own  house!” 

Mboq-Inten  looked  up.  She  did  not  speak.  But  an  unconquerable 
will  stood  in  her  eyes.  Sameerah,  frightened,  hid  herself  against  that 
one  being  who  was  kind  to  her ;  and  she  held  Kairan  tight-locked  in  her 
arms. 

Her  gesture  and  deathly  pale  face  touched  the  official.  And  certainly 
it  was  no  rebellious  desire  for  freedom  such  as  he  would  have  quelled, 
but  only  a  childish  love  of  the  miraculous,  which  he  noted  in  the  many 
faces  timorously  gazing  at  him.  But  he  was  a  guardian  and  educator  of 
those  eternally  infantile  ones:  it  was  his  duty  to  cure  them  of  that 
childish  craving  for  the  impossible  which  loves  to  soothe  and  delude 
itself  with  a  specious  semblance,  that  conscious  shirking  of  the  truth 
for  the  sake  of  desire.  And  he  said,  though  somewhat  less  severely:  “If 
I  cause  thy  daughter’s  grave  to  be  opened,  and  show  thee  her  bones 
within  the  grave,  wilt  thou  then  confess  that  she  is  dead  and  turned  to 
dust?  and  that  it  is  a  stranger  whom  thou  art  holding  embraced  now?” 

Fearlessly  Mboq-Inten  made  answer:  “Let  the  grave  be  opened  in 
which  Inten  has  lain!  And  let  me  stand  by  the  open  grave!  I  shall  be¬ 
hold  no  bones  in  it;  for  she  who  died  and  was  buried  is  arisen,  and  I 
hold  her  in  my  arms.” 

The  dull  red  of  annoyance  flushed  the  Hollander’s  face.  He  gave  an 
abrupt  order.  The  men  went  silently. 

But  Elizabeth  caught  at  his  hand.  “Oh,  why  do  a  thing  like  this? 
Shall,  then,  a  poor  handful  of  death  avail  against  life  and  the  truth  of 
life?  Look,  look  at  the  love  in  Mboq-Inten’s  eyes!  Her  love  it  is  that  is 
arisen  from  the  grave,  her  love  it  is  that  lives!  That,  surely,  is  the  great 
miracle,  that  love  always  arises  again  in  the  heart  that  once  has  loved. 
It  does  not  decay  in  any  grave ;  no  long  years,  no  bitter  sorrow,  have 
power  over  it,  to  weaken  or  to  discourage  it.  And  for  ever  and  ever 
again  Love  is  the  mother,  and  for  ever  and  ever  again  Love  is  the  child. 


28  ISLAND-INDIA 

And  by  love  only  we  live  and  have  our  being,  all  of  us,  all  of  us,  as 
many  as  we  are  human  beings  upon  this  world  in  need  of  love.” 

She  uttered  the  helpless  disconnected  words  in  a  voice  deeper  than 
her  own ;  she  groped  her  way  toward  her  thought ;  as  one  blinded  with 
an  excess  of  light  she  reached  for  a  truth  in  comparison  with  which  that 
other  truth  which  men  meant  when  they  spoke  of  reality  and  justice 
and  law  was  a  little  and  empty  thing,  an  ephemeral  semblance.  She 
stood  pale  and  tremulous  as  a  flame,  herself  a  ray  of  that  great  light, 
its  glories  shining  through  her. 

The  native  folk  who  did  not  understand  her  words  yet  understood 
herself,  her  pallor,  the  dark  and  fervid  tenderness  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
passionate  voice.  As  toward  their  salvation,  Mboq-Inten  and  Samee- 
rah  raised  their  eyes  toward  her.  Elizabeth  went  up  to  them  and  gently 
took  a  hand  of  each  into  her  hands.  Thus  she  looked  at  her  husband  be¬ 
seechingly.  He  stood  in  doubt  still,  dark.  But  then  he  looked  into  her 
eyes.  The  men  who  were  to  open  the  grave  had  stood  still.  He  made 
the  gesture  for  which  he  saw  they  were  waiting.  Well  content,  they 
receded  into  the  crowd. 

The  three  women  smiled  at  one  another. 

Elizabeth  and  Mboq-Inten  saw  the  calm  light  of  reason  dawning  in 
the  face  of  her  who  had  been  called  Sameerah,  but  who,  from  this  hour 
on,  was  Mother-of-Kairan. 

So  fair  a  miracle,  all  the  folk  thought,  was  never  yet  wrought  in  the 
Sacred  Grove. 


A  NATIVE  OF  JAVA 


A  S  manifold  as  the  loveliness  with  which  it  caresses  his  senses  and 
LjL  his  soul,  so  manifold  is  the  love  with  which  the  native  of  J ava, 
X  JL  the  brown  man  of  the  earth,  living  poorly  and  humbly  close  to 
the  glebe,  loves  his  land,  most  lovely  J  ava. 

He  loves  the  soil  of  Java,  which  is  a  fire  in  the  east  monsoon  season, 
and  a  flood  in  the  months  of  the  rains ;  which,  under  the  tread  and  turn¬ 
ing  wheels  of  the  long  files  of  bullock-carts,  slowly  creaking  along  the 
harvested  sugar-cane  fields,  floats  up  in  clouds  of  whitish  dust,  and  lies 
dark  and  cool  on  the  hands  of  the  women  at  work  in  the  rice-field, 
transplanting  the  month-old  seedlings  from  the  seed-plot  to  the  sawah, 
as  they  carefully  press  the  soaked  earth  around  the  limp,  pale  green 
stalk  that  the  plant  may  strike  firm  root  and  thrive;  the  earth  that 
softly  yields  to  the  potter’s  fashioning  fingers  as  he  shapes  the  lump  on 
his  revolving  disk  into  capacious  rice-bowl  or  slender  cooling-jar;  the 
earth  that  stands  steadfast  and  strong  in  the  dikes  of  the  flooded  ter¬ 
raced  fields,  bearing  up  against  the  hillside  a  flight  of  lakelets,  crystal¬ 
line  pools,  where  the  purple  skies  of  sunrise  and  sunset  and  all  the 
sailing  clouds  of  azure  noon  float  reflected  amidst  the  green  of  the 
sprouting  rice. 

He  loves  the  scents  of  Java,  the  thousand  scents  that  float  on 
the  passing  breeze ;  the  smell  of  wet  earth  and  boulders  in  the  shallow 
river,  of  young  leafage  springing  from  shoots  all  swollen  and  gleaming 
with  sap,  of  the  pasture  where  the  naked  herdsman  lies  piping  in  the 
shade  as  his  broad  buffaloes  plunge  into  the  pool,  snorting;  the  bitter 
smell  of  the  tall  alang-alang  grass  afire  on  the  hillside,  where  some 
reckless  nomad  sits  waiting  to  sow  his  rice  in  the  ashes,  that  he  may 
gather  a  harvest  from  soil  unbroken  and  untilled;  the  exquisite  fra¬ 
grance  of  the  penang  palm  in  bloom,  breathing  from  the  wall  of  trees 
that  hides  from  view  a  hamlet;  the  pungent  smell  of  the  market-place 
and  the  crowded  highway,  and  the  home  where  children  are  always 
being  fed;  the  odour  of  the  incense  that  hallows  the  eve  before  the  Day 
of  Prayer;  the  scent  of  the  white  jessamine  wreaths  that  crown  the 
bride  and  the  bridegroom  sitting  in  state  at  the  wedding  feast. 


30  ISLAND-INDIA 

He  loves  the  sounds  of  Java,  the  innumerable  sounds,  to  which  his 
heart  makes  gladsome  answer;  the  delectable  sound  of  the  rain  on  the 
living  leaves  of  the  wood  and  the  withered  leaves  of  woven  roofs,  on 
the  boulders  in  the  ravine,  where  the  silent  brooklet  begins  to  purl  and 
cluck,  and  suddenly  lifts  up  clear  voices  calling  aloud;  the  wind-stirred 
rustle  and  murmur  of  the  bamboo  grove  that  surrounds  the  village,  a 
swaying  cloud-like  wall  of  foliage,  where  at  sunset  swarms  of  rice- 
birds  twitter  unseen;  the  busy  sound  of  rice-pounding,  a  dancing 
rhythmical  beat  from  the  hollowed-out  tree-trunk  lying  between  the 
starrily  flowering  citron  bushes  of  the  fruit  garden,  the  scented  space 
of  shade  and  freshness  for  the  labouring  housewife,  over  whose  shoul¬ 
ders  the  babe,  cradled  in  the  deftly  slung  slendang  cloth,  laughs  at  the 
dance  of  the  golden  rice  grains  bouncing  away  from  the  pestle;  the 
festive  sound  of  the  gamelan  orchestra  played  by  an  able  musician 
whose  touch  on  the  bronze  sends  the  deep  tones  and  the  shrill  soaring 
through  the  silences  of  the  night,  and  they  hover  for  a  while  firefly¬ 
like,  gladdening  hearts  far  away. 

He  loves  the  colours  of  J ava,  the  clear  and  effulgent  ones,  the  darkly 
glowing  ones  saturated  with  mellow  sunshine,  the  delicate  ones,  tender 
and  cool  as  moonlight  upon  dew ;  the  tints  of  diaphanous  hilltops  in  the 
distance  and  of  the  mist-flushed  plain;  the  sparkling  green  of  the 
sawah ;  the  purple  in  the  heavily  hanging  blossom  cone  of  the  banana- 
tree  at  the  back  of  his  house ;  the  thousand-tinted  sparkle  with  which 
the  long  files  of  gaily  attired  women  strew  tamarind-shaded  roads  that 
lead  to  the  market ;  the  scarlet  and  blue  and  green  and  black  and  gold 
of  the  garb  in  which  gods,  nymphs,  and  heroes  are  represented  in  the 
solemn  wayang  drama. 

And  he  loves  the  daily  labour  of  Java,  the  labour  he  does  not  do  for 
wages  in  the  service  of  the  alien,  but  for  his  own  ends,  at  his  own  will, 
in  his  own  way,  the  ancient  way  of  his  people,  as  his  father  taught  it  to 
him. 

To  go  to  the  sawah  at  daybreak — the  field  that  out  of  the  broad  ex¬ 
panse  of  common  land  the  headman  and  elders  of  his  village  have  allot¬ 
ted  him  as  his  own  for  a  year’s  space — to  go,  his  feet  in  the  dew-frosted 
grass  where  scents  still  are  asleep,  his  face  lifted  to  the  colourless  sheen 
that  precedes  dawn,  to  move  lightly  through  air  fresh  and  abundant 
as  welling  water,  feeling  on  his  shoulder  the  light  burden  of  the  wooden 


31 


A  NATIVE  OF  JAVA 

plough,  and  looking  at  the  yoke  of  broad-backed  buffaloes  that  slowly 
tread  the  wonted  way — the  ploughman’s  good  friends  they,  who  lend 
their  strength  to  his  knowledge ;  to  drive  the  long  furrow  through  soil 
growing  warmer  as  morning  glows  into  noon,  the  rich  soil  where  the 
rice  grains  of  the  recently  gathered  harvest  already  are  sprouting  un¬ 
der  the  ashes  of  the  stubble  fires  (the  ploughman  thinks  of  the  frolick¬ 
ing  boys  of  the  village,  how  they  leapt  among  the  leaping  flames,  and 
remembers  himself  leaping  and  frolicking  thus  not  so  many  harvests 
ago) ;  to  return  in  the  heat  of  noon  to  find  the  coolness  of  the  house, 
and  the  meal  of  rice  and  dried  fish  neatly  served  on  a  strip  of  freshly 
gathered  banana  leaf ;  to  see,  in  the  slowly  cooling  hours  of  the  after¬ 
noon,  the  lengthening  shadows  gliding  along  a  narrowing  strip  of  un¬ 
broken  ground,  slender  man’s  shadow  side  by  side  with  broad  shadows 
of  plough  beasts ;  and  to  draw  the  plough  out  of  the  last  furrow  as  he 
sees  the  buffaloes  and  his  own  arms  and  knees  reddened  by  the  glow 
of  sunset.  Thus  to  live  through  the  working  day  is  sweet  to  him. 

And  sweet  is  the  restful  evening  afterward,  when,  perchance,  he 
does  not  go  home  after  bathing  under  the  small  gurgling  and  frothing 
cascade  of  the  hillside,  where  the  women  of  the  village  fill  their  pitch¬ 
ers,  but  he  squats  down  in  the  group  of  young  men,  who  sit  smoking 
their  cheroots  and  quizzing  the  girls  in  impromptu  rhymes,  laughing 
when  some  quick-witted  maiden  returns  an  apt  answer.  Arms  under 
head  he  lies  at  length  and  feels  the  evening  breeze  lifting  up  the  wet 
hair  at  his  temples,  and  gazes  at  the  Ploughman  whom  Westerners  call 
Orion,  as  he  rises  in  the  darkening  heavens  and  drives  his  starry 
plough  along  the  arching  furrow  that  stretches  from  eastern  horizon  to 
western.  The  crickets  in  the  leaves,  the  tiny  ones  that  shrilly  trill,  and 
the  large  ones  that  buzz  and  thrum,  hum  him  asleep.  When  the  sky  be¬ 
gins  to  gleam  around  the  fading  morning  star,  the  sheen  that  lights  up 
to  purple  the  darkness  of  his  eyelids  wakes  him.  Benumbed  with  sleep, 
he  half  rises,  keeping  his  sarong  drawn  over  his  head,  and  sits  still, 
arms  around  knees,  head  drooping,  like  some  bush  bending  under  its 
burden  of  dew.  Even  as  the  bush  opens  its  blossoms,  so  he  slowly  opens 
out  toward  the  rising  sun. 

He  loves  the  feasts  of  Java,  at  which  gods  and  genii  are  his  unseen 
guests.  For  many  weeks  beforehand  he  rejoices  in  the  coming  harvest 
feast.  A  merry  sight  it  is  to  him  when  the  housewife  prepares  and  dyes 


32  ISLAND-INDIA 

with  yellow  boreh  powder  the  sacrificial  rice  and  chooses  the  finest 
fruit  of  the  garden  for  an  offering  to  Dewi  Sri,  the  Rice-Goddess. 
When  the  angkloong  players  begin  the  feast,  shaking  their  sets  of 
graduated  bamboo  tubes  from  which  the  liquid  notes  pour  forth  cluck¬ 
ing,  he  binds  a  handful  of  rice-ears  into  his  kerchief,  and  another  hand¬ 
ful  into  the  kerchief  his  friend  holds  out  toward  him,  and,  with  the 
gaudy  bundles  dangling  from  either  end  of  his  bamboo  yoke,  he  per¬ 
forms  the  graceful  dance  that  follows  the  rise  and  fall  of  that  undulat¬ 
ing  music. 

He  loves  the  graves  of  J ava,  the  miracle-working  tombs  of  the  saints 
of  Islam  and  of  mighty  sultans,  whither  he  goes  to  pray  for  a  blessing 
on  his  undertakings;  the  graves  of  his  father  and  mother,  whither  on 
set  days  the  household  brings  flowers  and  food,  that  the  souls  of  the 
dead  may  feed,  and  rejoice,  beholding  their  children’s  love  still  faithful 
to  them  and  mindful  of  their  needs  in  the  cold  Land  of  Shadows. 

All  things  of  Java  he  loves;  all  of  his  lovely  country  is  sweet  to  his 
senses  and  sweet  to  his  soul — so  abundant  in  sweetness  that  even  the 
utterly  poor  may  often  have  his  fill  of  happiness  there.  He  loves  with 
the  love  that  cleaves  to  the  last  thing  left,  the  dearest,  the  heart’s  inner¬ 
most  treasure,  with  the  timorous  needy  love  of  the  immemorially  sub¬ 
servient,  the  conquered  of  many  conquerors,  for  the  one  thing  inde- 
feasibly  his  own  which  his  proud  masters  have  left  him. 

This  is  why  the  eyes  are  so  full  of  fear  and  anger  that  gaze  through 
iron  bars  at  the  tall  ships  in  the  roadstead — the  ships  of  the  masters, 
their  formidable  beasts  of  burden  with  iron  heart  and  fiery  breath,  the 
strong  swift  swimmers,  that  carry  to  Java  from  far  lands,  that  carry 
away  from  Java  to  far  lands,  what  the  masters  ordain;  that  carry  pre¬ 
cious  goods  and  carry  men  dispossessed  of  all  goods.  Men  of  Java  who 
have  done  the  thing  forbidden  by  the  law  of  the  masters  they  carry 
away  from  Java  to  alien  and  distant  lands.  Dark  faces  turn  grey  when 
the  ship  in  the  roadstead  lifts  her  piercing  voice  as  the  signal  for  de¬ 
parture. 

The  jailer  enters.  He  puts  an  iron  collar  on  the  necks  of  the  prison¬ 
ers  condemned  to  deportation,  iron  manacles  on  their  wrists.  He  drives 
the  gang  of  chained  convicts  in  their  mud-brown  garb  forward  on  the 
road  to  the  shore. 

The  men  walk  slowly.  They  cast  about  dull  furtive  looks,  they  lay 


33 


A  NATIVE  OF  JAVA 

hold  with  their  eyes  on  the  humble  houses  in  the  native  quarter,  on  the 
men  and  women  in  the  road,  on  the  naked  children  loitering  about  the 
stalls  of  the  sellers  of  sweetmeats.  They  set  their  feet  on  the  earth 
heavily,  as  if  they  would  strike  root  there  and  grow  fixed  for  ever,  like 
trees.  And  in  that  last  instant  when  the  indifferent  policeman  pushes 
them  into  the  prao,  some  one  of  the  exiles  will  perhaps  suddenly  stoop 
and  take  up  from  the  shore  and  hide  against  his  heart  a  handful  of 
earth — a  handful  of  J ava. 

Why,  indeed,  should  this  not  have  happened  more  than  once  before 
or  after  that  time  when  Westerners  saw  it? — passengers  of  a  steamer 
bound  for  the  Moluccas  who,  idly  leaning  over  the  railing,  watched  a 
man  in  a  gang  of  convicts  thus  stoop;  thus  with  his  fettered  hands, 
which  moved  but  awkwardly,  take  up  from  the  wave-washed  shore  and 
thus  hide  against  his  naked  breast  a  handful  of  sand.  Wondering  they 
gazed  at  the  brown  man  and  his  passion. 

He  was  a  young  man — boy  rather  than  man — lightly  treading  as  a 
deer,  with  wild,  frightened  eyes.  He  carried  himself  as  hill  folk  do,  who 
in  attitude  and  motion  show  their  fellowship  with  the  wind,  the  rapid 
runner  on  the  hillside.  When  the  policeman  roughly  pushed  him  into 
the  prao,  with  his  whole  body  he  gave  a  sharp  sideward  jerk,  like  a  cap¬ 
tured  animal  bounding  to  escape. 

The  policeman  drove  the  mud-brown  troop  through  the  jostling 
crowd  on  deck  to  the  hatches,  shut  down  upon  the  precious  freight  in 
the  hold ;  they  lay  there  like  a  heap  of  sorry  stuff,  not  worth  the  stow¬ 
ing,  left  where  the  weary  bearers  had  flung  it  down. 

The  policeman  took  off  their  fetters — of  what  use  fetters  in  that  one 
prison  from  which  there  is  no  escape,  the  ship  on  the  high  seas?  But 
they  sat  as  if  still  suffering  that  iron  constraint  on  neck  and  arms — in¬ 
ert,  stolid.  He  of  the  flashing  eyes  was  among  them  as  among  dull  ashes 
a  live  spark.  He  held  his  face  immovably  turned  toward  the  sinking 
coast  of  J  ava ;  those  flashing  eyes  burned  into  it.  More  than  one  of  the 
passengers  seated  in  the  pleasant  shade  of  the  awning  averted  his  gaze 
from  the  sight. 

They  were  Hollanders,  he  was  a  Javanese.  The  fairness  of  their 
faces  and  hands,  white,  the  proud  hue  of  the  conquering  race  in  this 
land  of  the  brown  conquered,  made  brotherhood  amongst  themselves, 
made  separation  between  them  and  those  men  who  had  a  brown  skin, 


34  ISLAND-INDIA 

the  indelible  mark  of  defeat  and  servitude.  Though  they  had  not  known 
about  one  another  the  day  before,  and  would  have  forgotten  one 
another  the  day  after,  yet  they  were  comrades  to-day,  aboard  this 
ship — this  strong  and  wonderful  thing  wrought  by  brains  and  hands 
of  their  own  race,  which  carried  their  common  lot  in  soaring  security 
between  wave  and  wind.  And  they  spoke  and  thought  of  the  things 
which  were  their  own,  of  overlordship  and  riches.  Yet  more  than  one 
of  them  felt  and,  feeling,  was  fain  to  avoid,  that  burning  gaze  at  the 
coast  of  Java,  at  the  fatherland  sinking  away  in  the  sea. 

A  young,  straight,  fiery-eyed  creature,  such  as  that  Javanese  was, 
a  creature  like  a  flame — in  many  ways  surely  such  a  one  might  have 
erred  against  the  law  of  the  masters,  the  law  that  is  of  the  intellect,  that 
knows  naught  of  sorrow  or  joy,  but  makes  for  power  only,  for  the 
might  of  the  mightiest  and  for  whatever  serves  that  might. 

He  surely  would  have  danced  gracefully,  a  reveller  at  the  golden 
harvest  feast  of  the  rice,  shone  upon  by  the  light  from  smiling  maidens’ 
eyes.  Had  he  found  a  rival  hidden  in  the  garden  of  the  fairest  at  night¬ 
fall? 

At  cock-fights  when  the  bird,  strong  and  eager  for  the  fray  after 
many  months’  training,  flies  at  his  enemy,  neck  feathers  ruffled,  when 
hacking  bills  and  the  shrewd  stroke  of  claws  armed  with  trenchant  steel 
spurs  make  the  blood  spout  from  head  and  breast — he  surely  would 
have  been  a  mad  gambler.  Had  the  winner  laughed  all  too  insolently 
as  he  carried  away  his  dead  cock  ? 

Those  eyes  of  his — like  black  flames  they  were — he  had  surely  not 
cast  them  down  humbly  under  a  blow  from  a  white  hand.  Had  he 
wreaked  his  fury  running  amuck,  blind  with  blood,  killing  he  knew 
not  whom? 

Labour  in  exile  is  the  punishment  which  the  law  of  the  Western 
masters  metes  out  for  gravest  offenses.  The  masters  of  yore,  the  sultans 
who  were  adored  and  feared,  as  they  had  been  gods,  punished  not  ac¬ 
cording  to  law  but  as  whim  moved  them — incalculable,  incomprehen¬ 
sible  whim — with  punishments  that  were  acts  of  vengeance,  tortures, 
mutilations,  rendings  asunder  of  bone  and  sinew.  Of  this,  too,  they 
thought,  who  nevertheless  were  constrained  to  avert  their  gaze  from 
those  burning  eyes.  Among  the  other  convicts,  the  native  of  Java  sat 
solitary,  shut  up  within  his  sorrow  as  within  a  windowless  prison. 


35 


A  NATIVE  OF  JAVA 

Around  him  there  was  a  cautious  muttering,  behind  the  back  of  the 
sleepy  policeman,  about  things  of  which  the  happy  know  not — rash 
deed,  and  flight,  and  capture,  all  in  vain — of  aching  days  of  labour  and 
nights  afire  with  thoughts  of  revenge ;  about  escape  from  exile.  There 
were  many  voices  that  questioned  and  one  voice  that  answered,  a  voice 
that  derided  the  masters,  the  ignorant  mighty,  and  extolled  the  cunning 
of  the  conquered,  the  innumerable  tricks  which  the  condemned  of  the 
masters’  law  teach  one  another,  so  that  the  simple  man,  whom  his  hot 
blood  and  the  law  of  the  alien  drove,  all  blindly,  into  the  secret  brother¬ 
hood  of  the  convicts,  will  grow  subtle  as  the  wily  one  of  the  woods, 
the  dwarf  deer,  and  dangerous  as  the  deadly  snake.  Henceforth  no 
wronged  one  will  accuse  him  any  more,  no  thief-taker  will  catch  him, 
no  judge  will  find  a  way  to  condemn  him!  The  poisonous  whispering 
found  its  way  into  the  solitude  of  the  native  of  J ava  as  the  intoxicating 
datura  seed,  which  the  burglar  blows  through  a  crevice,  penetrates  into 
the  house  where  a  man  lies  alone;  as  the  eyes  of  the  defenceless  victim, 
so  his  eyes  grew  dim  and  dull. 

And  the  ship  hastened  on,  hastened  through  the  long  morning,  the 
afternoon,  the  short  red  evening,  the  night;  through  the  black  night, 
moonless  and  starless,  she  found  her  way.  She  never  swerved  to  left  or 
right,  she  never  hesitated,  she  never  lagged;  her  screw  spurned  the 
Java  Sea,  her  bow  swallowed  the  distances  ahead  of  her,  she  drew 
toward  her  the  alien,  the  terrible  land.  At  sunrise  she  would  have 
reached  the  roadstead. 

It  was  dark  on  the  deck,  still  within  the  ship.  Deep  down  in  the 
stoke-hole  the  scorched  stokers  were  at  their  work,  blinking  their  red, 
lashless  eyes  at  the  blaze  they  incessantly  fed  with  ancient  heat,  turned 
into  black  stone;  in  the  stifling  engine-room  the  engineer,  breathing 
heavily,  moved  forward  and  backward  amidst  gliding,  shoving,  leaping 
steel ;  on  the  bridge  the  watch  was  on  the  lookout,  the  ship’s  sleepless 
eye,  peering  out  into  the  night  for  any  danger  that  might  threaten  her 
course.  But  all  else  slept.  Within  their  fan-cooled  cabins,  into  which 
ventilators  drew  the  freshness  of  the  spaces  of  sea  and  night  without, 
the  masters  of  the  ship  slept ;  scattered  on  the  floor  of  the  saloon,  half 
in  and  half  out  of  the  white  and  red  clothes  which  with  the  colours  of 
the  ship’s  flag  marked  them  as  the  ship’s  property,  the  servants  slept ; 
in  the  second  class,  their  heads  pillowed  on  their  ledgers  with  the  packs 


36 


ISLAND-INDIA 


of  cards  and  the  bundles  of  banknotes  they  had  been  gambling  with  all 
day  long,  the  Chinese  slept ;  on  deck,  sarong  drawn  over  head  or  arms 
folded  over  face  to  ward  off  the  glare  of  the  electric  light,  huddled 
family  groups  of  natives  slept.  Even  the  convicts  slept,  side  by  side 
with  the  sleeping  guard. 

But  suddenly  sleepers  everywhere  awoke,  a  shriek  ringing  in  their 
ears  which  made  the  heart  stand  still.  And  again,  and  yet  once  again  it 
rang  out,  fainter  and  more  piteous  each  time,  farther  off  in  the  surging 
darkness  of  the  sea.  As  if  that  wretched  cry  of  a  creature  in  agony  had 
clutched  at  her  in  her  headlong  course,  the  ship  slowed  down  and  lay 
still.  And  passengers  hurrying  on  deck  saw  the  lifeboat  making  to¬ 
ward  a  blue  flame  on  the  water,  far  away  in  the  ship’s  wake.  The 
natives  around  the  hatches  whispered,  eyeing  askance  the  empty  place 
among  the  convicts  where  had  lain  the  man  who  had  taken  a  handful  of 
earth  from  the  shore. 

As  the  rescuers  led  him  staggering  up  the  gangway  the  policeman 
pounced  upon  him;  he  held  the  convict  clutched  with  both  fists  as  he 
brought  him  before  the  captain.  Trembling  with  abject  fear,  livid,  the 
native  of  Java  stood  in  the  intolerable  light.  The  sea- water  dripped 
from  his  torn  convict’s  garb,  darkening  the  deck  around  his  feet.  Like 
a  damp,  agony  reeked  from  him.  The  captain  questioned  him.  It  was 
long  before  the  all  but  inaudible  answer  came : 

“I  do  not  know.  I  was  asleep.  I  awoke  in  the  sea.  Then  I  screamed 
for  help.” 

In  vain  the  captain  pointed  out  how  useless  the  awkward  lie  was, 
since  evidently  in  quiet  weather,  and  from  the  place  where  the  convicts 
lay  amidships,  it  was  not  possible  for  a  man  to  fall  overboard  sleeping. 
The  convict  muttered  again : 

“I  do  not  know.  I  was  asleep.  I  awoke  in  the  sea.  Then  I  screamed 
for  help.” 

Speaking  more  severely,  the  captain  then  said  that  the  truth  was 
manifest,  and  the  convict  had  better  confess  so  as  not  to  aggravate  his 
offense  and  of  necessity  his  punishment ;  he  had  attempted  to  escape, 
and  had  leapt  into  the  sea,  hoping  to  swim  to  some  islet  where  a  roving 
opium-smuggler  or  fisherman  would  have  picked  him  up  and  shipped 
him  back  to  Java.  But  if,  as  his  heart  forsook  him  and  he  screamed  out 
in  the  sea,  the  officer  on  watch  had  not  heard  and  flung  him  the  lifebuoy, 


A  NATIVE  OF  JAVA  37 

causing  the  ship  to  stop,  and  if  the  men  of  the  lifeboat  had  not  rowed 
out  to  him  and  seized  him  as  he  was  sinking,  he  must  have  drowned, 
and  even  now  the  sharks  would  be  tearing  up  his  body.  F or  no  swim¬ 
mer,  not  the  boldest  and  strongest,  could  have  reached  any  shore  from 
the  spot  where  he  was  sinking.  Leagues  and  leagues  around,  there 
was  nothing  but  open  sea. 

With  a  slow  sweep  of  his  white-sleeved  arm  the  captain  pointed 
over  distances  beyond  distances  of  darkness  toward  the  circling  hori¬ 
zon  invisible  in  the  night.  The  onrush  and  the  gurgling  fall  of  the  waves 
against  the  ship’s  sides  broke  through  the  unwonted  stillness  with  a 
threatening  sound.  Overawing,  the  thought  loomed  up  of  the  infinite 
loneliness  of  the  seas. 

The  policeman  pushed  the  rescued  man  back  to  his  place  among  the 
other  convicts.  He  passively  suffered  himself  to  be  flung  down  upon 
the  heap. 

The  slow  night  wore  away.  As  he  walked  up  and  down  the  bridge, 
the  officer  on  watch  found  his  glance  returning  again  and  again  to  the 
mud-brown  heap  of  convicts  in  the  fierce  glare  of  the  electric  light,  to 
the  one  figure  sitting  erect  amongst  the  prostrate  sleepers.  He  had 
drawn  over  his  head  the  sarong  given  him  instead  of  his  drenched  con¬ 
vict’s  garb.  His  hands  folded  around  his  knees,  he  sat  motionless.  Once, 
at  a  chance  glimpse,  the  officer  thought  he  saw  a  small  huddled-up 
shape  glide  away  from  him.  But  then  again  he  thought  it  must  have 
been  the  shadow  of  the  sail  that  had  slightly  stirred  in  the  breeze. 

The  dark  watcher  sat  still  as  a  stone :  as  one  waiting.  In  the  dew-cold 
hour  before  dawn,  harvesters  guarding  the  gathered  sheaves  sit  thus  in 
the  village  rice- fields  of  Java.  They  are  waiting  for  the  sun,  for  the  re¬ 
commencement  of  life.  What  was  he  waiting  for? 

Night  was  almost  over.  Around  the  faded  morning  star  the  sky  was 
growing  transparently  white.  The  Javanese  raised  his  face  toward  the 
coming  dawn;  then  for  a  long  while  he  gazed  toward  the  west;  the 
sky  was  dark  as  yet,  over  there.  At  last,  very  gently,  with  a  movement 
of  child-like  compliance,  he  lay  down.  He  drew  the  border  of  his  sarong 
over  his  eyes  as  if  to  sleep  deeply  in  darkness,  and  lay  still,  utterly  at 
rest. 

As  one  who  at  the  end  of  a  vigil  beholds  afar  his  heart’s  desire  ap¬ 
pearing — now  he  may  well  close  his  eyelids  over  the  blessed  sight,  he 


38  ISLAND-INDIA 

may  well  stretch  his  weary  limbs  along  the  path  of  that  assured  ap¬ 
proach — even  so  he  lay. 

Day  broke. 

There  where  the  red  light  shone,  land  hove  in  sight.  It  stood,  a  dull, 
faint-coloured  wedge  in  the  core  of  the  purple  blaze  that  was  setting 
sea  and  sky  immensely  aflame.  The  ship  made  straight  for  it.  Faces 
irradiated  by  the  dawn  were  turned  toward  the  Moluccan  island  as  it 
rose  on  the  view,  lifting  scintillating  hilltops  in  a  still  deepening  splen¬ 
dour  of  diaphanous  blue. 

In  the  transfiguring  glory  of  the  dawn,  with  the  sheen  all  around  of 
gladdened  faces  and  eyes  alight  with  a  new  beginning,  a  new  hope,  that 
heap  of  castaway  humanity,  the  mud-brown  gang  of  convicts,  showed 
all  the  sorrier.  In  dull  apathy  the  exiles  gazed  at  the  thing  feared  with 
the  fear  of  death:  the  alien  land. 

The  yawning  policeman  reached  out  for  the  manacles.  The  hands 
that  had  done  against  the  law  of  the  masters  were  to  be  barred  from 
all  self-willed  doing,  henceforth.  When,  after  others  had  passively 
surrendered  neck  and  wrists  to  the  clasp  of  the  iron,  that  one  man 
never  moved  nor  heeded  his  call,  the  policeman  sullenly  seized  the  arm 
lying  limp  and  long  beside  the  body.  But  he  hastily  withdrew  his  hand, 
startled. 

Two  of  the  convicts,  who  had  squatted  down  at  head  and  foot  of  that 
still  shape,  their  manacled  hands  hanging  between  their  knees,  looked 
from  him  to  the  man  who  held  the  fetters.  And  the  one  of  them  uttered 
a  word,  a  short  word  of  deep  and  terrible  sound.  He  had  not  said  it 
aloud.  And  yet,  all  heard. 

The  word  passed  over  the  ship,  over  the  motley  crowd  of  natives  on 
the  fore-deck,  over  the  groups  of  Chinese  at  the  entrance  of  the  second- 
class  cabin,  over  the  company  of  Hollanders  shining  in  their  white 
clothes  under  the  awning.  As  if  out  of  a  sunlit  lake  a  dark  monster  had 
suddenly  lifted  its  head,  and  now  gloom  spread  in  widening  ripples 
until  all  the  glory  had  gone  down  before  it,  so  at  that  one  word  an  awed 
gravity  overcast  faces  in  an  ever  spreading  circle,  until  there  was  not 
one  but  wore  a  still  look. 

Some  one  came  and  bent  over  the  dead  man,  lifting  the  sarong  from 
his  face.  It  lay  revealed,  very  young,  almost  smilingly  gentle.  It  shone 
with  a  radiancy  purer  than  the  pure  sunshine  that  lit  up  the  brow  and 


The  Sea 


A  NATIVE  OF  JAVA 


39 


the  pale  mouth.  There  was  a  space  around  it  wider  than  all  the  spaces 
of  the  infinite  sea.  So  perfect  was  that  serene  quietude,  no  man  still 
groping  through  the  clamorous  darknesses  of  life  would  have  dared 
disturb  it  with  a  shadow  of  those  darknesses,  would  have  dared  utter 
the  word  of  suffering  and  despair  which  was  the  name  of  that  streak  of 
whitish  powder  still  clinging  to  the  half-open  lips. 

A  wizened  little  old  woman,  who  furtively  hid  something  still  deeper 
down  under  jealously  guarded  market-ware,  stooped  and  hid  behind 
those  next  to  her,  as  the  medical  officer,  raising  his  head,  looked  about 
him. 

He  questioned  the  dead  man’s  two  friends : 

“Why  did  he  do  this  thing,  he  who  called  for  help  against  death?” 

The  one  of  the  two  spoke  slowly : 

“When  he  would  have  drowned  himself  in  the  sea,  his  body  feared, 
so  that  he  needs  must  call  for  help.  But  his  soul  desired  death  and  re¬ 
mained  constant.  For  bitterer  than  death  it  was  to  him  to  live  far  from 
Java.” 

They  left  him  the  sarong  of  the  Javanese  peasant  when  they  buried 
him  on  the  alien  shore. 


ENCOUNTERS  AT  SEA 


I.  RECOGNITION 

IT  was  the  wild  western  coast  of  Ceram,  the  stronghold  once  of 
slave-hunters  and  pirates.  Between  a  sky  dark  with  stormy  cloud- 
rack  and  a  dull  grey  sea  palely  writhing  with  slow  trails  of  foam, 
the  forbidding  rock  rose  black.  Puny  the  ship  lay  under  the  lowering 
steep.  The  passengers  sat  silent  as  if  the  darkness  that  overcast  the  sea 
and  the  sky,  that  seemed  to  be  exhaled  by  those  sombre  heights,  lay 
black  and  heavy  on  their  own  hearts  too. 

Down  the  beach,  a  narrow  strip  of  pale  sands  clinging  to  the  base  of 
the  rocks,  there  moved  a  long  file  of  coolies  heavily  burdened  and 
stooping  under  the  load.  It  seemed  to  go  on  for  ever,  beginningless  and 
endless,  that  long  file,  still  gliding  on  between  the  rocks  and  the  ship, 
dimly  discerned  in  the  grey  of  mist  and  sea- vapour.  The  faces  of  those 
stooping  figures  remained  invisible,  hidden  between  raised  arms  and 
down-hanging  load.  Each  like  every  other,  all  in  that  identical  attitude 
of  strained  bearing  and  stooping,  they  came  gliding  on,  naked  and 
dark,  as  if  out  of  the  dark  rock,  soundless,  almost  immaterial,  a  train 
of  phantoms  breathed  forth  out  of  hidden  depths. 

What  thing  was  it  that  held  them  so  deeply  bowed  down,  and  that, 
when  the  dangling  grapnel  had  caught  it  up  from  the  beach  and  low¬ 
ered  it  down  into  the  hold,  fell  so  heavily  as  to  cause  the  ship  to  sink 
still  deeper  and  deeper  under  the  load? 

The  merchant  from  the  distant  harbour  town,  who  distrustfully 
counted  the  bearers,  spoke  of  wood-produce,  the  sole  harvest  of  this 
wild  island — rattan,  and  deer’s  skins  and  horns,  and  lumps  of  speckled- 
wood,  the  diseased  excrescences  on  the  roots  of  huge  trees  in  the  prime¬ 
val  forest,  more  valued  than  the  sound  stem,  since  some  rich  man’s 
whim  chose  it  for  the  decoration  of  his  palace.  And  of  this  too  spoke  the 
young  army  officer  with  the  ghastly  cicatrice  across  his  forehead,  sent 
out  to  crush  the  rebellion  which  alien  traders  had  instigated  amongst 
the  head-hunting  Alfoors  of  the  interior. 

But  it  seemed  impossible  that  the  thing  which  made  that  train  of 


ENCOUNTERS  AT  SEA 


41 


phantoms  bend  down  so  deeply  and  the  ship  herself  stagger  like  an 
overburdened  slave  should  be  but  deer’s  skins  and  horns  and  gnarled 
boles.  It  could  be  nothing  on  which  the  sun  had  ever  shone.  The  inscru¬ 
table  procession  bore  a  thing  unbearable,  heavy  and  cold  and  black  as 
the  rock  out  of  which  the  dark  bearers  issued.  Not  on  their  backs  they 
bore  it,  but  in  their  hearts.  And  it  was  because  of  this  that  the  seamews, 
restlessly  wheeling  about  the  ship,  screamed  so  loudly  and  shrilly,  with 
such  piercing  shrieks.  How  they  cried  woe  and  vengeance  with  their 
discordant  clamour,  to  which  the  echoes  made  answer  complainingly ! 

Even  thus,  on  this  very  coast,  shrieked  in  utter  need  and  despair  the 
wretches  whom  the  Ceram  pirates  assailed.  Even  thus  resounded,  from 
the  steep  of  the  rock  and  out  of  hidden  caverns,  the  lamentation  of 
prisoners  haled  into  the  stronghold  hard  of  access,  impossible  to  escape 
from.  There  sat  the  Sea  King,  like  an  eagle  on  a  crag,  spying  into  the 
distance  for  sails.  Wings  spread,  the  trading  prao  fled.  Pale  faces,  dis¬ 
torted  with  fear,  turned  toward  the  reef  where  the  pirates’  skiff,  quick 
as  the  darting  snake,  lay  in  wait.  The  rowers,  dry-throated,  panting, 
strained  to  breaking  their  hurrying  arms  and  bodies  spasmodically 
pulling,  as  they  strained  away  from  the  fearsome  thing  from  which 
they  could  not  keep  their  haggard  eyes.  The  limpid  water  grew  red  as, 
with  a  leap  fiercer  than  the  tiger’s  upon  the  wild  cow,  the  Ceram  prao 
seized  the  trader. 

But  red  into  all  distances,  red  with  the  red  of  blood  and  the  red  of 
fire,  grew  the  waves  and  the  hills  when  he  came  who  was  stronger  than 
that  strong  one,  he  who  slew  tens  of  thousands  for  the  hundreds  slain 
by  the  Alfoor — the  conqueror  from  the  West,  who  struck  not  as  the 
Alfoor  struck,  with  hands  merely  in  which  there  was  the  weight  of 
wood  and  stone  and  the  edge  of  metal  for  a  weapon;  nay,  he  struck 
with  his  thought  also,  and  with  the  elements  which  by  the  power  of  his 
thought  he  had  changed  into  his  weapons,  with  earth  transformed  into 
a  thunderous  flame,  with  air  pressed  into  a  death-hurling  sling.  He 
spoiled  the  spoiler,  he  hunted  the  hunter,  he  slew  the  slayer,  he  left 
none  alive  but  slaves.  Then  the  thing  began  which  was  to  endure  into 
a  future  beyond  sight,  which  endures  even  at  this  present  day ;  endures 
in  secret,  creeping  in  tortuous  darknesses,  in  the  forests  of  the  wild  in¬ 
terior,  in  the  black  western  firths  clamorous  with  the  shrieks  of  sea¬ 
gulls,  in  the  hearts  of  the  isle-folk.  Then  the  thing  began  under  which 


42  ISLAND-INDIA 

they  stooped  rancorously,  even  as  those  burdened  coolies  stooped,  who 
hid  their  faces  as  they  came  down  the  narrow  strip  of  beach  toward 
the  Westerners’  ship — the  ship  of  the  strong-of -thought,  in  which  they 
have  the  seething  sea-waves  for  their  rowers,  and  call  the  lightning  to 
their  mast-heads  for  their  messenger — as  they  came  carrying  on  their 
bent  backs  in  tribute  to  the  conqueror  the  growth  of  the  soil  once  their 
own. 

The  gnarled  logs  and  the  trusses  of  rattan,  the  deer’s  skins  and  ant¬ 
lers — how  ill  the  load  of  it  all  hid  that  other  burden  which  they  bore, 
the  black  weight  so  unbearably  heavy  that  even  the  strong  ship  sank 
under  it  like  an  overburdened  slave ! 

The  ship’s  passengers,  the  Westerners,  the  masters  of  all  those 
bearers  of  burdens,  they  felt  the  heaviness  of  it  on  their  own  hearts. 

In  a  different  way  each  felt  the  pain  dimly  felt  by  all.  For  in  each 
heart  it  grew  to  be  a  thing  by  itself,  indivisibly  one  with  its  own  inner¬ 
most  pain,  pain  suffered,  pain  inflicted,  pain  that  was  named  sorrow, 
pain  that  was  named  sin,  pain  named  with  whatever  other  name  the 
confusing  words  of  men  may  find  for  it. 

As  a  sick  serpent,  writhing,  raises  its  head  out  of  its  crevice  under  the 
hunter’s  probing  spear-thrust,  so,  stabbed,  the  ancient  pain  writhed  up 
out  of  darkest  heart’s  fold;  and  an  inexorable  voice  commanded:  “Suf¬ 
fer  yet  more!” 

The  seagulls  made  plaintive  answer. 

The  wandering  screams  were  so  loud,  so  long  in  lamentation,  that 
it  was  a  while  before  a  listener  of  finer  ear  than  the  others  discerned 
among  the  crying  voices  of  the  birds  the  voice  of  a  woman  crying.  He 
hearkened,  dismayed.  But  that  piteous  voice  suddenly  fell  silent  again. 
And  it  was  only  the  gulls  that  were  heard  still  shrieking,  as  if  still 
hunted  onward,  wheeling  about  the  ship. 

But  when  the  officer  with  the  terrible  cicatrice  mustered  his  men,  he 
heard  from  them  how  a  young  woman,  a  girl,  hardly  more  than  a  child, 
whom  they  pointed  out  to  him  cowering  away  trembling,  in  a  corner  of 
the  after  deck,  had  all  but  been  haled  away  by  two  Alfoors  who  had 
posed  as  her  kinsmen,  but  who  had  been  denounced  to  the  captain  as 
slave-hunters,  preying  upon  women  and  young  boys  whom  they  ab¬ 
ducted  in  their  fast-sailing  ships  to  the  Eastern  islands  for  the  service 
of  cruel  masters. 


43 


ENCOUNTERS  AT  SEA 

At  the  tale,  one  of  the  passengers  said  it  was  impossible  to  think 
there  could  be  slaves  there  where  the  Netherlands  maintained  law  and 
order;  and  another  rejoiced  in  the  salvation  of  the  girl,  and  her  trust 
in  the  ruling  race,  that  had  been  so  well  justified.  And  it  almost  seemed 
as  if  the  dark  shadow  fallen  from  the  steep  of  the  gloomy  island  van¬ 
ished  out  of  brightening  eyes;  as  if  the  heaviness  which  the  stooping 
phantom  train  of  coolies  had  laid  on  thought  were  sliding  off,  and  that 
ancient  pain  sank  into  slumber  again,  when  the  officer,  turning  his 
courageous  marked  face  in  going,  exclaimed  that,  within  a  few  weeks, 
life  and  freedom  would  be  as  safe  in  Ceram  as  they  are  in  Holland. 

But  then  the  one  who,  alone,  had  heard  the  shriek  of  the  hunted  girl 
asked:  “Where  in  this  world  are  life  and  freedom  safe  to-day?  Which 
is  the  Sanctuary  that  Greed  dare  not  enter  as  it  pursues  Need?” 

No  one  answered. 

In  deepest  dark  of  the  heart  the  old  pain  shrank  back  from  the  Pur¬ 
suer’s  recognized  gaze. 


II.  THE  SOMETHING  OTHER 
Around  was  the  infinite. 

But  the  sheltering  ship  screened  them  from  it.  Her  strong  hull,  her 
superposed  canvas  roofs,  her  manifold  fittings  were  between  their  feet 
and  the  depths,  their  heads  and  the  heights,  their  sight  and  the  dis¬ 
tances.  As,  in  an  unfelt  speed,  she  bore  them  along  between  waves  and 
clouds,  they  sat  ensconced  in  a  soft  smooth  safety  as  of  home,  amidst 
familiar  comforts,  refined  to  a  luxury  that,  mingling  with  their  blood 
like  the  tropical  air,  soothed  them  into  a  dreamy  content. 

The  silent  servants,  moving  inaudibly  on  bare  feet,  had  brought  to 
the  table,  set  out  in  a  breezy  place  on  deck,  goblets,  dim  with  cold,  of 
golden-brown  wine  and  profusely  heaped  dishes  of  fruit,  ruddy  apples, 
fresh  as  when  with  a  soft  thud  they  dropped  into  the  deep  dewily  shin¬ 
ing  September  grass,  apricots  flushing  between  yellow  and  crimson, 
full  clusters  of  grapes,  transparently  white,  some  with  opal-like  gleams 
of  faintest  brown  and  pink,  others  blue  almost  to  blackness,  the  bloom 
upon  the  large  perfectly  sphered  berries  intact,  figs,  purple  at  the  core, 
melon-slices,  brilliantly  hued.  One  of  the  passengers  expressing  ad- 


44  ISLAND-INDIA 

miration,  the  captain,  carelessly  as  it  seemed,  named  the  various  coun¬ 
tries  in  which  the  ship’s  purveyor  had  chosen  the  pick  of  the  market; 
and  the  talk,  gliding  on  in  questions  and  answers,  glanced  from  the 
dark  Spanish  wine  in  the  goblets  where  the  ice  made  a  faint  fine  tin¬ 
kling  against  the  crystal,  to  the  white  marble  of  the  table,  the  furniture 
in  the  smoking-room  and  the  saloon,  yesterday’s  dinner.  And  countries 
were  named,  each  for  a  special  produce,  selected  each  for  a  special  qual¬ 
ity  of  softness  to  the  sense — Spain,  Italy,  Brazil,  the  jungles  of  Bor¬ 
neo,  Alpine  meadows,  vineyards  of  France,  the  Newfoundland  coast, 
Australian  cattle-ranges — till  it  seemed  as  if  somewhere  in  the  far 
away,  they  were  lying  there,  dark  and  soft  in  their  fleece  of  forests  and 
undulating  harvests,  like  a  herd  of  gigantic  milch-cows,  patiently  yield¬ 
ing  an  abundance  of  sweet  food. 

A  middle-aged  man,  with  an  able  energetic  face,  observed:  “Ah, 
that  is  what  ‘civilization’  means.”  And  the  others  gravely  nodded  as¬ 
sent. 

A  youngster,  reddening  boyishly,  said:  “The  Oriental  having 
proved  himself  absolutely  incapable  of  achieving  this,  the  Westerners’ 
supremacy  over  him  ...” 

“Exactly,”  said  the  able-faced  man  decisively. 

And  the  youngster,  blushing  still  more  deeply,  added:  “As  his 
teacher  and  guardian,  I  meant  ...” 

No  one  noticed.  For  there  was  a  sudden  cry:  “A  wreck,  a  wreck!  and 
men  on  it,  signalling!” 

Black  on  the  sparkling  blue  of  the  sea,  a  raft  tossed,  half  submerged. 
Something  dark  fluttered  above  the  crouching  shapes  huddled  together 
on  it.  The  captain,  frowning,  gave  an  order  to  the  young  ship’s  officer 
who  had  come  up  to  him.  The  ship  changed  her  course,  heading  for  the 
raft. 

“Three  men  on  it!” 

“Yellow  men — Chinese.” 

“They  hardly  move.  All  but  dying,  it  would  seem.” 

As  the  steamer  reached  them  one  of  the  gaunt,  livid-faced  shapes 
made  a  gesture  of  drinking.  Pails  of  water  were  lowered  to  them  and 
heaped-up  baskets  of  rice. 

They  flung  themselves  upon  the  water,  thrusting  their  heads  into  it, 
and  gulped  with  a  horrible  rattling  sound,  in  convulsive  gasps  that 


45 


ENCOUNTERS  AT  SEA 

shook  their  angular  shoulder-blades  and  flanks  all  hollow  under  the 
jutting  ribs.  At  last,  raising  dripping  faces  with  water  running  out  of 
the  mouths,  they  struck  claw-like  hands  into  the  rice  and  bit  at  their 
fists,  clenched  upon  the  food.  The  hollow  faces  were  livid  under  bris¬ 
tling  tags  of  hair  burnt  rusty-red;  the  plaits  hung  down  their  lean 
backs  matted  and  filthy,  like  the  tails  of  sick  beasts ;  there  were  loath¬ 
some  whitish  blotches  on  their  legs  and  feet. 

At  last,  glutted,  they  looked  up  into  the  crowd  of  faces  gazing  down 
at  them  over  the  railing  of  the  tall  ship. 

One  of  the  three  called  out  something,  in  a  hurtling  jerky  language. 

A  reply  came  in  similar  sounds.  A  sudden  gleam  lit  up  the  dull  faces. 
The  three  of  them  together,  they  shouted  at  the  man  who  understood 
their  dialect.  They  were,  they  said,  men  of  Hai-Nan,  trading  along  the 
coast  from  the  gulf  of  Tongking  to  Rangoon.  The  monsoon  had  seized 
and  disabled  their  junk.  Miles  out  of  their  course  they  had  drifted,  till 
they  ran  upon  a  reef.  There  the  gale  and  the  breakers  battered  the 
junk  to  pieces,  and  one  of  them  died.  They  had  tied  together  boards 
into  a  raft,  and  for  three  days  and  three  nights  rowed  and  drifted 
whither  the  wind  tossed  them.  They  had  all  but  gone  mad  with  thirst ; 
was  it  far  to  the  coast  still? 

The  captain  pointed  to  where,  invisible  still  under  the  horizon,  the 
summits  lay  of  the  Sumatran  hill-range. 

A  boat  was  lowered,  in  which  there  lay  oars  and  a  compass. 

The  Chinamen  carried  into  it  a  long  bundle  done  up  in  mats,  that 
had  lain  carefully  fastened  to  the  raft.  And  the  interpreter  asked  them 
what  most  precious  possession  it  might  be  that,  of  all  their  goods,  they 
had  solely  saved  out  of  the  wreck  and,  in  such  imminent  danger  of 
foundering,  carried  with  them  for  three  days  and  three  nights. 

But  at  the  answer  they  made,  he  stood  as  one  who  does  not  under¬ 
stand  or  is  unable  to  believe.  And  he  asked  again. 

And  the  bony  livid  face,  bristled  about  with  spikes  of  reddish-black 
hair,  that  looked  up  into  his  face,  nodded,  and  said  “Yes,”  with  mouth 
and  eyes.  Yes.  Yes.  And  the  other  man  pronounced  a  few  words,  and 
the  third  a  few  words  also,  in  a  still  tone. 

Then  he  who  had  asked  became  as  a  beach  that  lets  the  ebb  flow  off 
and,  utterly  empty  and  wide,  bares  itself  to  the  tide  coming  on  resplen¬ 
dent  and  thunderous. 


46  ISLAND-INDIA 

He  turned  toward  the  people  on  the  ship  and  said  slowly,  and  as  he 
spoke  his  face  grew  pale  and  luminous :  “Their  comrade  who  died  in  the 
gale,  his  body  they  rescued  from  the  wreck,  in  order  to  bury  him  as  the 
holy  law  ordains,  in  the  land  of  his  forefathers ;  that  his  soul  may  be  at 
peace  in  eternity.” 

It  became  very  still  on  the  ship.  Many  eyes  were  cast  down. 

But  the  captain  gave  a  hurried  order.  Men  came  running  with  long 
poles  and  thrust  off  from  the  ship  the  vessel  of  death.  It  glided  away 
over  the  waves.  Those  who  stood  gazing  after  it  saw  it  dwindle  into  a 
darkly  tossing  speck  upon  the  blue. 

If  thoughts  could  grow  visible,  a  fairer  radiance  than  of  resplendent 
sea-birds’  flight  would  have  shone  about  the  dead  man  and  the  guard¬ 
ians  of  his  soul,  about  the  will  that  sought  the  infinite. 

III.  SHIPS  DANCING 

Over  the  darkling  sea,  out  of  the  unseen,  the  subtle  fragrance  had 
come  floating  toward  the  ship — the  fragrance  of  the  tropical  eucalyp¬ 
tus,  which  Malays  call  the  whitewood-tree,  Kayoo-pootih.  And  at 
dawn  the  island  rose  into  view,  grey  as  rain  and  grey  as  mist,  grey  with 
Kayoo-pootih  woods.  Grey  the  straight  slender  stems,  grey  and 
straight  and  slender  as  streaks  of  rain  on  a  windless  day.  Along  the 
steep  rock  the  innumerable  frail  white  trees  make  a  streaky  greyness  as 
of  continuous  rain.  And  the  delicate  pale  airy  foliage  hangs  like  drifts 
of  mist  over  rain-saturated  soil. 

The  captain  pointed  at  the  cloud-like  island. 

“That  is  Booroo,  Booroo  of  the  Kayoo-pootih  woods.  Do  you  smell 
the  scent  on  the  wind?  And  see,  here  the  traders  are  coming  with  the 
precious  oil!” 

The  boats,  large  and  small,  were  coming  on  in  shoals.  Chinese  junks 
were  foremost,  and  Booghi  ships,  proud  of  build  and  bow  as  seven¬ 
teenth-century  galleys.  Orembays  of  the  Moluccas  followed,  rowed 
by  twenty  rowers,  outriggers  resembling  a  large  water-bird  with  a 
young  one  at  either  side,  and,  agile  as  flying  fish,  dugouts,  darting  past 
and  through  the  press  of  the  other  craft. 

The  passengers  were  standing  by  the  railing;  the  traders  came  clam¬ 
bering  on  to  the  deck.  Then  a  giving  and  taking  began  that  made  silver 


ENCOUNTERS  AT  SEA  47 

to  gleam  in  brown  palms  and  brightly  green  flasks  of  oil  in  white  hands 
and  yellow. 

The  beautiful  Arab  woman  by  whose  side  an  even  more  beautiful 
daughter  stood,  held  out  a  gold  piece  toward  the  important-looking 
Chinese  merchant  whom  coolies  followed  carrying  heavy  cases.  The 
girl  with  the  dusky  face,  soft  as  a  flower  within  its  setting  of  diamonds 
dewily  sparkling  at  her  ears  and  throat,  smiled  when,  as  the  lid  fell 
back,  the  spicy  scent  rose  toward  her. 

A  bevy  of  gaudily  dressed  women  and  serving-men  were  beckoning 
to  the  traders,  to  bring  them  oil  for  the  harem  of  the  Sultan  of  Bat j an. 

There  were  folk  from  Ambon  aboard — Christians  in  name,  they 
had  not  lost  the  ancient  Pagan  delight  in  sweet  scents.  They  came  has¬ 
tening  toward  the  oil,  and  the  women  poured  drops  of  it  on  the  lace 
handkerchiefs  in  which  they  wrap  their  hymn  books  when,  of  a  Sun¬ 
day,  they  go  to  church  to  show  their  fine  clothes ;  and  letting  it  trickle 
along  their  fingers  they  spread  it  over  the  glossy  ripples  and  wavelets 
of  their  blue-black  hair. 

Even  the  white  people  bought,  though  somewhat  diffidently,  on  ac¬ 
count  of  that  bright  green  colour  which  is  caused  by  the  copper  of  the 
primitive  native  still. 

And  still  barges,  praos,  dugouts,  kept  crowding  around  the  steamer, 
and  still  the  brown  islanders  kept  carrying  cases,  crates,  and  panniers 
full  of  oil  into  the  hold. 

F or  in  northern  lands  where  the  sun  shines  but  palely  athwart  mist 
and  smoke,  where  trees  stand  bare  of  leafage  and  fragrance  for  many 
months  together  and  limbs  stiffen  and  ache  with  cold,  millions  were 
waiting  for  the  sparkling  medicine  distilled  out  of  odorous  leafage  and 
sunshine. 

At  close  of  day  the  ship  from  keel  to  deck  was  as  full  of  oil  as,  at  the 
end  of  a  plentiful  summer,  hives  are  full  of  honey.  It  gave  forth  fra¬ 
grance  as  Booroo  does,  that  for  miles  around  makes  sweet  the  sea  air. 
The  railing  and  the  very  tackle,  for  all  it  was  soaked  and  sated  with  the 
pungent  smell  of  the  sea,  exhaled  a  breath  of  Kayoo-pootih. 

Well  content,  the  traders  had  looked  at  the  small  rolls  of  silver  coins 
before  they  hid  them  away  in  a  fold  of  their  waist-cloths.  They  thrust 
off  their  praos  from  the  steamer. 

But  not  all  the  boats  headed  for  the  island.  A  group  of  the  larger 


48  ISLAND-INDIA 

ones  remained  near,  one  taking  up  a  place  behind  another,  lying  in  file 
as  if  expectant. 

Then  a  tall  Booghi  ship,  under  dark  red  sails,  with  a  stately  motion 
glided  out  of  the  file.  And  striking  up  a  festive  music,  with  a  great 
sound  of  bronze  gongs,  of  drums,  and  of  flutes,  it  swept  in  a  wide  circle 
around  the  steamer,  round  and  round  again.  All  the  other  ships  fol¬ 
lowed,  rowing  and  sailing;  in  the  wake  of  the  Booghi  ship  they  swept 
round  and  around  the  steamer,  wheeling  in  wide  circles  and  singing  as 
they  went.  Each  one  sang  a  song  of  his  own — each  of  these  great  water- 
birds,  these  stately  swans  of  the  sea.  Every  bird  sang  in  his  own  notes 
— with  shrilly  sweet  piping  and  chirping  the  lesser;  the  greater  in 
deeply  resonant  bursts  of  sound  in  powerful  bronze  voices. 

The  sun  set.  The  sea  was  all  empurpled.  The  red  sails  of  the  Boo¬ 
ghi  ship  caught  the  evening  breeze  and  flamed  up,  transparently 
resplendent. 

All  ablaze  the  beautiful  ship  sailed,  purple  over  the  purple  sea, 
leading  the  choral  dance  of  the  ships. 

Round  and  round  the  steamer  it  swept  melodiously.  The  musicians 
were  playing  with  a  will,  the  rowers  kept  time  with  a  raising  and  dip¬ 
ping  of  oars ;  merrily  sailed  the  fleet. 

As,  in  happier  days,  youths  and  maidens  danced  singing  around  the 
May  Queen,  desiring  not  nor  envying,  rejoicing  in  her  beauty,  so  the 
Eastern  vessels  danced  around  the  Western  ship,  rejoicing. 

The  men  and  women  of  the  West,  of  the  lands  where  joy  is  as  rare 
and  fleeting  as  the  sunshine,  gazed  wondering.  In  the  evening  glow 
their  faces  were  red  as  roses.  As  the  ship  was  filled  full  of  precious  fra¬ 
grance,  their  hearts  were  filled  full  of  gladness. 


THE  HUNTER 


THE  hunter  and  his  servant,  the  white  master  and  the  brown 
servant,  who  have  grown  to  be  comrades  whilst  hunting  to¬ 
gether,  are  watching  for  game,  on  the  border  of  the  grass-grown 
clearing  in  the  heart  of  the  forest.  They  do  not  care  what  it  is  that 
comes  to  them ;  it  is  sure  to  be  a  strong  animal  or  a  quick  animal,  one 
that  has  strength  to  attack  or  one  that  has  strength  to  escape ;  sure  to  be 
something  to  kill. 

As  they  are  watching  now,  on  the  border  of  the  wood-meadow,  so 
they  watch  always  in  all  places.  At  the  edge  of  the  forest  where  the 
hard  immovable  bodies  of  the  trees  do  not  crowd  together  so  closely 
but  soft  hurrying  bodies  of  animals  may  slip  through;  and  on  the  shore 
of  the  mountain  lake,  in  the  night,  where  many  thirsty  ones  bend  down 
to  drink  and,  having  slaked  their  thirst,  stand  for  a  while  motionless 
and  dark  against  the  sky,  whilst  drops  like  liquid  sparks  of  moonlight 
drip  from  the  wide  nostrils  about  which  the  breath  stands  out  like  a 
silvery  mist ;  and  in  the  tall  grass  of  the  wilderness  that  lifts  its  grey 
blossom-plumes  high  above  a  man’s  head,  in  the  dangerous  alang-alang 
that  hides  from  one  another  the  pursuer  and  the  pursued,  so  that  the 
one  never  knows  about  the  other  or  about  himself,  whether  he  hunt  or 
be  hunted ;  and  they  watch  in  their  own  home,  too,  in  their  own  smooth, 
white  house. 

As  other  men  the  hunter  lives  in  a  house,  and  does  the  things  that  are 
done  within  the  walls  and  under  the  roof  of  a  house — easy  things,  done 
without  passion,  to  sate  and  foster  the  body,  and  difficult  things,  done 
without  passion  too,  for  the  sake  of  such  fostering  in  future.  He  eats 
food  which  others  prepare  for  him  and  set  forth  on  a  table  spread  with 
white  linen,  he  puts  on  thin,  cool  clothes,  he  has  a  smooth  floor  under 
his  feet,  sits  down  in  an  easy  chair,  and  sleeps  on  a  bed  that  is  carefully 
made.  It  is  all  the  same  to  him  whether  the  storm  shriek  and  the  rains 
stream  down,  or  whether  the  scorching  sun  flame  in  the  sides ;  he  is  dry 
under  his  roof,  cool  within  his  walls.  And  he  reads,  ponders,  and  writes, 
that  he  may  be  certain  this  same  well-fed,  well-sheltered,  well-cared- 
for  life  may  still  continue.  No  other  purpose  has  he  in  this,  no  other 


50  ISLAND-INDIA 

wish.  But  as  he  sits  in  his  smooth,  white  house  doing  these  things  dis¬ 
passionately,  because  of  custom  and  necessity,  the  desire  for  his  true 
life  waits,  restless  and  fell.  He  thinks  of  the  great  spaces  without,  be¬ 
yond  his  walls,  over  his  roof,  the  infinite  spaces  that  teem  with  animals 
— the  grass,  the  water,  the  wood,  the  hills,  the  air,  teeming  with  ani¬ 
mals.  He  is  all  a-tremble  with  desire  and  impatience.  The  while  his 
eyes  read,  his  hand  writes,  his  mouth  eats,  the  while  his  body  lies 
stretched  out,  his  innermost  thought  sits  watching,  spying  for  animals 
to  kill.  Because  his  own  eyes  are  blinded  and  his  own  ears  are  deafened, 
so  many  times  and  for  so  many  hours  together  within  the  entombing 
house,  he  has  eyes  and  ears  in  other  men  who  go  about  spying  and  lis¬ 
tening  all  day.  In  the  evening  they  come  to  him  to  tell  him  of  what  they 
have  found. 

When  the  translucent  green  that  after  sunset  spreads  its  tranquil 
lakes  around  purple  and  golden  cloud-islets,  begins  to  dull  and  to  ebb 
away  in  the  western  sky,  when  the  trees  of  the  garden  grow  immense, 
broadening,  heightening  into  stupendous  dimensions  as  they  exhale 
innermost  darkness,  when  the  smooth  white  things  within  the  house 
sink  and  disappear  before  the  rising  tide  of  night,  the  hunter  sits  be¬ 
hind  the  tall  pillars  of  the  verandah  as  behind  tall,  smooth  tree-trunks 
at  the  border  of  the  wood,  watching.  His  cigar  gleams  out  toward  the 
dark  highway  like  the  tiny  lantern  which  cricket-hunters  hide  amongst 
leaves  to  lure  the  light-loving  chirpers.  And,  as  easily  lured  as  they, 
natives  approach  who  know  there  are  silver  coins  waiting  behind  that 
spark.  Voices  come  out  of  the  darkness: 

“I  crave  permission.” 

Well  content  the  hunter  answers,  “Come  and  stand  before  me.” 
Vaguely  discernible  figures  crouch  on  the  nethermost  step  of  the  ve¬ 
randah. 

“Tooan,  every  night  deer  come  to  drink  at  the  brook  that  flows  past 
the  bamboo  copse.” 

“A  herd  of  wild  pigs  has  broken  through  all  my  fences,  into  the 
sweet-potato  plantation!  Alas,  alas!  they  have  rooted  up  and  de¬ 
voured  all  the  crop.” 

“A  tiger,  Tooan,  prowls  around  the  hill  village.  We  found  his  trail 
near  the  buffalo  pen.” 

The  hunter’s  heart  is  set  throbbing.  He  questions  the  villagers  to 


The  Hunter 


THE  HUNTER  51 

know  the  hour  and  the  spot,  the  animals’  wonted  haunts.  Gladly  the 
native  feels  the  small  coin  in  his  palm.  Gladly  the  hunter  calls  to  his 
comrade,  “Djongolan!  Djongolan!”  Djongolan  is  standing  behind 
him  already.  He  has  been  sitting  in  the  dark  near  the  house.  He  too 
has  been  on  the  watch.  He  too  has  been  hunting — all  the  time — and  his 
finer  ear  has  caught  the  sound  of  those  naked  footsteps  before  they 
left  the  road.  “Djongolan!  look  after  the  guns.  See  that  rice  is  boiled 
in  a  plaited  bag  of  fresh  banana-leaf  strips.  See  that  water  is  filled  into 
bamboo  cases.  We  will  go  hunting  to-morrow  morning  before  dawn.” 

Now  they  may  light  the  lamp  over  the  writing  table!  It  is  no  matter 
if  the  piles  of  books  and  papers  be  never  so  high.  The  hunter  sits  down 
whistling,  and  all  through  the  monotonous  work  he  hears  the  music  of 
the  guns  clicking  in  Djongolan’s  hands,  the  music  of  his  movements 
and  voice  in  the  go- down  and  in  the  kitchen.  As  he  stretches  himself  on 
the  cool  sheet  of  his  bed  he  thinks,  “To-morrow  night  I  shall  lie  on  dry 
leaves,  and  I  shall  see  the  light  of  the  watch-fire  playing  through  the 
trees  overhead.” 

The  comrades  are  in  the  midst  of  the  wood  when  the  morning  star 
still  hangs,  brimful  of  light,  in  the  dark  sky.  Silently  and  surely  they  go 
through  the  sulky  blackness  of  the  wood.  Night  is  about  their  feet, 
night  against  their  faces,  and  the  dewy  fulness  of  leaves.  Immeasur¬ 
ably  high  overhead,  a  glowing  purple  vault  rises,  seen  through  dark 
tree-tops  as  through  dark,  low-drifting  clouds.  The  air  smells  of  life. 
Where  the  smell  is  dull  and  lies  still,  there  is  the  motionless  life  of 
earth  and  stones.  Even  as  through  a  dark  rippleless  pool  living  water 
will  sometimes  come  welling  up  in  smallest  bubbles,  even  as  somewhere 
through  the  ooze  of  its  banks  a  tiny  rill  flows  out,  thus,  through  the 
dull,  still  smell  of  earth  and  stones,  a  smell  of  beginning  life  in  moss 
and  fungi  floats  up,  a  smell  of  ending  life  in  rotting  leaves  and  de¬ 
cayed  wood  floats  out  and  is  lost  in  the  air.  Where  smells  are  sweet  and 
hang  tranquilly,  there  is  the  balmy-breathed  life  of  new-budded  leaf¬ 
age,  and  flowers  deeply  hidden  that  have  bloomed  overnight.  Where 
smells  are  sharp  and  fugitive,  like  sudden  rays,  there  the  rapid  lives  of 
animals  have  passed  by.  Was  it  a  bird,  warm  from  the  darkling  nest? 
A  red-eyed  squirrel  that  with  a  swinging  leap  bounded  into  the  leafage 
where  it  is  densest?  Or  perhaps  a  wild  cow  wandered  past,  with  her  calf 


52 


ISLAND-INDIA 


nuzzling  her  full  udder  as  it  went.  Perhaps  that  pungent  smell  rose 
from  the  dripping  sides  of  a  stag  that  swam  across  the  lake  to  the  hind 
browsing  among  the  tall  reeds  of  the  shore. 

The  two  men  breathe  deep.  They  sniff  the  air.  They  drink  in  the 
multitudinous  life.  Their  own  grows  stronger  and  wilder  with  it.  Their 
eyes  grow  fierce.  They  tread  noiselessly.  They  warn  one  another  with¬ 
out  speech,  with  hands  and  eyes.  Underfoot,  around,  overhead,  the 
forest  is  like  a  mountain  of  leaves,  and  they  move  along  the  all  but  in¬ 
visible  paths  of  charcoal  burners  and  of  the  wood-rangers  that  tap  the 
areng  palm  for  its  sweet  juice,  as  along  passages  burrowed  by  moles 
into  the  solid  greenness.  Often,  too,  they  have  to  hew  out  their  way 
themselves.  With  their  short,  broad  knives  they  hack  into  brushwood 
and  saplings  and  through  the  masses  of  the  thorny  rattan  that  cuts  at 
them  with  hooked  whips.  The  leeches,  raining  down  upon  them  out  of 
the  shaking  leaves,  hang  on  and  sting  so  fiercely  that  their  clothes  are 
red  with  their  own  blood.  They  do  not  heed;  they  are  hunting.  Pur¬ 
plish  blue  and  golden  green,  a  woodcock  flaps  his  wings.  A  catamount 
spits  at  them,  her  yellow  eyes  ablaze.  Howling  with  fear,  a  troop  of 
monkeys  leap  through  a  tree  past  which  the  black- spotted  panther 
creeps.  And  as  often  as  the  hunter,  motionless  and  well-hidden  for  a 
while,  takes  aim,  an  animal,  broken  and  bleeding,  drops  with  a  shrill 
scream. 

In  the  tall  grass  of  the  wilderness  that  makes  the  hillside  to  glisten 
palely  in  the  sun,  the  tiger  has  his  lair.  Snake-like  he  winds  through  the 
tall  stalks;  swift  as  a  flash  of  lightning  he  strikes  the  deer  herd  brows¬ 
ing  among  the  young  shoots,  or  the  wild  pigs  that  burrow  up  the  sweet¬ 
est  roots  of  the  alang-alang.  Sated  and  heavy  with  blood,  he  lies  asleep 
in  the  bamboo  copse  that  rises  sheer  above  the  grey  seas  of  grass.  The 
peacocks  come  out  and  perch  in  the  branches;  his  followers  they,  who 
live  on  his  leavings.  Greenish  blue  and  golden,  their  tails  gleam  like 
some  dark  rainbow  among  drifting  clouds  of  leafage.  Their  sharp  heads 
with  the  diaphanous  blue  crests  glisten  as  they  stretch  bending  necks 
to  peer  down.  Among  the  black  and  the  yellow  of  shadows  and  sun¬ 
beams,  has  not  other  black  and  yellow  stirred?  Has  it  not  slowly  risen 
in  a  stretching  of  supple  limbs,  whilst  blood- red  jaws  yawn  under  a 
gleam  of  cruel  eyes?  Resplendent  in  the  noonday  glare  they  take  flight, 
screaming  for  joy. 


THE  HUNTER 


53 


In  the  alang-alang  wilderness  the  deer  hear,  and  flee  in  flying  leaps ; 
the  wild  pigs  hear  and  break  into  a  gallop,  shaking  the  ground  with 
the  thud  of  their  hammering  hooves.  In  the  meagre  rice-fields  of  the 
hillside,  the  peasants  hear,  and  throw  down  spade  and  mattock  as  they 
run  toward  the  gate  of  the  village,  narrowly  opening  into  the  enclo¬ 
sure  of  sharply  pointed  posts.  Within  the  plaited  huts  of  the  hamlet, 
the  women  hear,  and  rush  out  for  their  children  at  play  out-of-doors. 
At  the  border  of  the  wood  the  hunter  hears.  The  hunter  rejoices.  The 
comrade  leads  the  timorous  men  into  the  alang-alang  in  a  wide  semi¬ 
circle,  that  with  shouting  and  the  beating  of  hollow  wood  blocks  they 
may  drive  the  tiger  toward  the  edge  of  the  forest.  There  the  hunter 
stands  watching,  leaning  against  a  tree,  his  back  toward  the  tiger.  He 
hears  a  scouring,  shuffling  sound  drawing  nearer  and  nearer.  He  stands 
motionless,  tense,  from  his  head  that  listens  and  thinks  rapidly  to  his 
finger  that  waits  on  the  trigger.  Branches  break  under  a  soft,  heavy 
tread ;  a  poisonous  breath,  a  stench  of  blood  and  decay,  goes  past ;  he 
sees  the  shambling  black  and  yellow  shanks.  On  the  spot  he  has  chosen, 
thirty  paces  away,  his  bullet  strikes  the  tiger  in  the  neck.  When  the 
terrible  beast  leaps  up,  when  it  turns  roaring  and  that  flaming  head 
comes  at  him,  his  second  shot  goes  home. 

The  comrade  bends  over  the  open,  bleeding  jaws  to  pull  out  the 
whiskers,  which  he  hides  in  the  folds  of  his  head-cloth  for  a  talisman. 
The  villagers  come  running;  they  know  the  hunter  will  turn  over  the 
quarry  to  them,  that  they  may  claim  the  prize-money.  Eight  of  them 
carry  the  stupendous  carcass  slung  upon  a  bamboo  trunk  that  bends, 
creaking.  The  white  of  belly  and  throat,  grown  so  delicately  for  the 
shade  and  the  cool  green  and  brown  gleams  of  the  forest  soil,  is  turned 
toward  the  fierce  sunlight;  the  great  head  hangs  dangling;  the  nose 
and  the  golden  glassy  eyes,  the  broad  forehead,  strike  against  stones 
and  knotted  roots.  The  hunter  averts  his  eyes. 

When  the  comrades  follow  up  a  trail,  through  the  wood,  along  the 
ravine,  up  the  steep  hillside,  they  never  think  of  giving  up  the  quest 
until  they  overtake  the  stag  or  the  dangerous  wild  bull,  the  lone  one 
whom  the  herd  has  driven  out.  Then  they  forget  ways  and  hours.  The 
heat  of  the  day  is  lessening.  Farther  and  farther  away  from  them  like 
to  a  couple  of  small  black  animals,  the  two  shadows  of  their  heads  run 


54  ISLAND-INDIA 

along  the  hillside  among  boulders  and  bushes  and,  suddenly,  high  up 
against  trees.  They  are  somewhere  in  the  unknown,  where  no  men  live. 

The  comrade  begins  searching.  By  the  trunk  of  an  areng  palm  into 
which  notches  have  been  cut  for  a  ladder,  by  a  charred  piece  of  wood 
on  the  ground  or  a  barely  perceptible  smell  of  burning  on  the  wind,  he 
guesses  the  path  to  the  wood-ranger’s  hut,  or  to  the  smouldering  pile 
of  the  charcoal  burners  in  some  as  yet  far-off  clearing.  But  the  hunter 
eschews  as  if  it  were  a  prison  all  human  habitation,  even  one  which,  like 
a  bird’s  nest,  is  made  of  plaited  twigs  and  leaves,  and  through  which  the 
wind  plays,  and  the  changeful  lights  of  the  heavens  by  day  and  night. 
He  needs  the  great  spaces  of  the  limitless  world  about  him  that  freely 
flow  and  freely  rise  out  into  all  distances,  up  into  all  heights — such  as 
environ  all  beings  except  man  only.  On  an  airy  hill-top  he  lights  his 
watch-fire ;  the  light  of  the  flames  shall  be  the  thin  dancing  wall  around 
his  defenceless  sleep  in  the  night. 

The  comrade  sits  warming  himself  at  the  fire,  drying  his  drenched 
clothes  and  chilled  skin.  He  feels  for  the  thorns  and  chards  that  have 
pierced  deep  into  his  feet  and  tears  off  the  leeches,  all  swollen  and 
black,  that  are  sticking  to  his  legs.  Meanwhile,  he  watches  the  roasting 
of  the  deer’s  haunch,  stuck  on  a  green  branch  from  which  the  juice 
drops  into  the  fire  hissing.  After  the  meal  he  is  drunk  with  repletion, 
fatigue,  sleep.  And  the  hunter,  seeing  how  he  no  longer  has  any  power 
over  his  head  and  eyelids,  how  he  cannot  hinder  them  from  bending 
and  hanging  down  like  flowers  wilting,  says  with  a  smile  that  the 
comrade  may  go  and  sleep ;  he  himself  will  watch  the  fire,  their  protec¬ 
tion  in  the  night. 

Now  he  is  alone;  thus  he  would  choose  to  be.  And  around  him  the 
night  is  like  a  black  sea,  rolling  in  waves  under  the  wind  like  the  sea, 
teeming  with  life  like  the  sea.  He  sits  still.  Overhead  are  the  lofty  stars, 
a  cloud  slowly  sailing,  the  hanging  leafage  through  which  the  firelight 
plays.  No  limits  anywhere,  no  narrowness.  He  feels  the  great  motions 
that  go  on  through  all  eternity,  resistless,  all-pervading.  In  the  chill 
of  the  black  earth,  in  the  radiance  of  the  stars,  in  the  wind  that  blows 
through  the  surging  trees  and  is  still  again,  in  the  light  noises  here 
and  there,  in  his  own  breathing,  he  feels  the  never-ending  course  of 
life,  the  never-ending  course  of  birth  and  death.  Like  waves,  like  the 
great  waves  of  the  sea,  that  still  are  coming  and  still  are  going,  that 


55 


THE  HUNTER 

fling  themselves  on  one  another,  and  strike  down  and  swallow  one  an¬ 
other  so  that  one  swells  and  grows  immense  with  the  gulping-in  of  the 
overthrown,  but  from  its  triumphant  height  crashes  down  and  subsides 
and  is  dispersed :  even  thus  the  innumerable  lives  are  still  coming  and 
still  going,  the  quick,  strong,  devouring  lives  that  wrathfully  fling 
themselves  upon  one  another,  every  greater  one  on  every  lesser  one; 
and  on  the  many  feeble  ones  devoured  a  stronger  one  grows  surpass¬ 
ingly,  until  from  its  topmost  height  it  is  hurled  down,  and  is  no  more 
— the  flaming  eyes,  the  claws  that  struck  down  and  gripped,  the  devour¬ 
ing  j  aws  that  tore  open  and  drank  so  much  of  life,  are  no  more.  Never 
to  be  anything  again.  Ever  to  be  everything  again.  A  new  life  springs 
where  a  past  life  sank.  There  is  no  decrease  from  any  disappearing, 
ever;  there  is  no  increase  from  any  appearing,  ever.  What  was  from 
the  beginning  is  to-day.  What  then  does  it  mean  when  a  man  says  I? 
What  then  is  that  which  takes  on  the  semblance  of  birth  ?  And  what  in 
truth  underlies  the  appearance  of  death? 

The  flames  sink  and  pale.  The  hunter,  musing,  throws  twigs  and 
dry  leaves  on  the  fire.  Around  a  branch  that  is  half  alive  yet,  blackish- 
green,  the  flame  hisses  writhing  among  twists  of  vapour  and  smoke. 
The  comrade  stirs  and  mutters  in  his  sleep.  What  was  that  noise,  hard 
by  ?  And  now,  that  cry  ?  The  hunter  lifts  his  head,  listening  sharply.  His 
thought  sees  in  the  dark.  He  knows  how  the  snake  in  writhing  curves 
ran  up  the  tree  and  seized  the  small  monkey  in  a  loop  that  broke  its 
ribs;  he  follows  the  luwak  as  with  dripping  mouth  it  slips  out  of  the 
nest  where  the  ringdove  sat,  spreading  her  wings  over  her  callow  young 
ones;  he  guesses  the  spot  where  the  crouching  panther  leapt  on  the 
deer.  He  throws  more  wood  on  the  fire,  and  draws  deeper  into  the  circle 
of  radiance  what  remains  of  his  booty — a  couple  of  green- winged  wild 
ducks,  maybe,  brought  down  as  out  of  the  blackish  reeds  along  the  river 
they  flew  up  into  the  purple  sunset  sky,  or  a  long-legged  heron  that 
sailed  on  wide-stretched  wings  over  his  whitish  reflection  in  the  swamp. 
He  listens,  his  nostrils  quiver,  his  mouth  stands  half  open  in  the  grey 
rough  beard.  Is  there  still  more  of  life  there,  still  more  of  fell  death? 
And  he  holds  his  breath  to  hear  the  better,  suddenly,  far  away,  the 
shrill  hoarse  lowing  of  the  rhinoceros. 

In  a  steep  pass  between  mountains  rising  high  above  the  sea — the 
rivers  falling  down  from  their  sides  hang  in  cascades  that  cease  in  mid- 


56 


ISLAND-INDIA 


air,  a  floating  whiteness  over  the  up-leaping  whiteness  of  the  surf — in 
a  deep  vale  between  the  rocks  over  which  he  has  hollowed  out  his  way, 
scouring  out  the  stone  with  his  heavily  hanging  belly,  the  terrible  bull 
stands,  blacker  than  the  black  night  around,  a  clenched  darkness.  He 
stands  immovable,  ponderous,  a  hill  of  strength.  He  roars  with  rage, 
with  angry  desire  to  crash  into  another  such  as  he,  another  black  thun¬ 
derous  hill  of  heat  and  strength.  He  makes  the  valley  to  shake  with  the 
stamping  of  his  feet.  He  sniffs  the  wind  in  which  he  scents  his  rival. 
The  white  of  his  terrific  horn  breaks  through  the  night  when  he  throws 
up  his  bent  head  with  a  j  erk. 

The  hunter  sees  it  as  if  he  saw  it  with  his  eyes;  he  frowns  in  despite 
because  he  cannot  win  his  way  through  the  blind  night.  And  the  com¬ 
rade,  who  has  waked  up,  half  raises  himself  leaning  on  his  elbow — his 
face  with  the  protruding  cheek-bones  and  the  receding  chin  is  strangely 
contorted  in  the  light  of  the  flames — and  tells  how  Malays  kill  the 
rhinoceros,  secure  from  the  danger  that  threatens  from  this  strongest 
and  fiercest  of  all  beasts  of  the  forest:  in  the  rhinoceros’s  hollowed- 
out  path  over  the  rocks  they  plant  a  knife,  the  handle  dug  well  into  the 
ground,  the  point  upward,  so  that  the  heavily  trailing  belly  cuts  itself 
open  against  it.  But  the  hunter  never  answers.  Maybe  he  never  heard 
those  sayings  about  safety  and  easily  got  booty,  he  who  from  the  inner¬ 
most  heart’s  depths  up  to  the  outer  rim  of  the  senses  is  filled  full  with 
the  one  lust  for  life  and  for  death  which  hurls  every  strong  one  upon 
every  other  strong  one. 

In  him,  the  man  of  lonely  life  who  already  is  beginning  to  grow  old, 
this  desire  has  been  for  so  long  a  time  that,  for  all  he  knows,  it  was  there 
always.  So  great  and  strong  it  has  grown  during  these  many  years  of 
hunting,  so  absolutely  the  greatest,  absolutely  the  strongest,  that,  for 
all  he  knows,  it  is  the  only  desire  in  him.  That  is  why  the  confusion  was 
so  great  when,  suddenly,  in  an  hour  that  in  no  way  differed  from  all 
other  hours,  whilst  he  sat  watching  for  some  creature  to  kill,  and  he 
cared  not  what  it  was  that  came ;  when  in  that  instant  a  feeling  rose 
within  him  before  which  that  great  and  strong  one  crouched  and  slunk 
away.  And  to  this  day  he  does  not  well  understand  what  it  was  that 
happened  to  him  in  that  moment. 


THE  HUNTER  57 

He  sat  watching  at  the  border  of  a  clear  meadow  in  the  heart  of  the 
forest,  well  hidden,  with  those  keen  eyes  of  his ;  and,  well  hidden  too, 
his  comrade  sat  not  far  away  from  him.  They  held  in  their  hands  the 
death  of  many  animals ;  well  content,  they  were  waiting  to  let  it  loose 
on  some  strong  wild  life.  The  meadow  lay  light  green  in  the  earliest 
sunshine.  The  red  blossoms  of  the  many  mimosa  plants  stood  shining 
above  the  dew- whitened  fans  of  still-folded  leaflets. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  violent  crashing  of  brushwood.  Almost  at  the 
same  instant  two  animals,  a  brownish  one,  a  yellowish  one  striped  with 
black,  leapt  out  of  the  dense  leafage  into  the  open  and  sunlit  meadow. 
They  stood  still  for  a  second,  affrighted  by  the  strong  sun.  But  then, 
loosely  as  the  wind  runs  out  through  the  leaves,  the  one  ran  away,  the 
other  ran  after,  and  the  two  began  a  game  of  playful  chasing  and  flee¬ 
ing  all  through  the  blossoming  meadow  and  round  and  round  about  in 
rapid  circles.  The  one  that  playfully  chased  was  a  fawn,  the  one  that 
playfully  fled  was  a  tiger  cub. 

The  fawn  ran  on  high,  woody  legs;  it  held  its  delicate  head  capri¬ 
ciously  on  one  side,  and  when  it  pretended  to  butt  at  its  playfellow  with 
that  round  little  forehead  about  which  the  hair  crinkled  softly,  it  sud¬ 
denly,  all  four  feet  off  the  ground,  made  a  bound  which  surprised  itself 
and  stood  quite  startled.  The  tiger  cub  had  a  thick  soft  head,  thick  soft 
paws,  a  little  belly  that  stood  out  all  round  and  full  of  suck.  The  white 
about  its  mouth  looked  like  milk.  And  it  ran  as  if  it  ran  for  its  life.  It 
drew  back  its  ears,  laying  them  flat  to  its  head ;  it  darted  through  the 
grass,  crouched,  peered  at  its  playfellow,  and  flung  itself  down  on  its 
flanks  to  await  him.  There  it  lay  like  a  patch  of  sunshine,  and  its  black 
stripes  looked  like  so  many  shadows  thrown  by  leaves  of  grass  and 
mimosa  stalks. 

The  little  fawn  came  stepping  gingerly,  with  stiff  legs,  its  head  on 
one  side.  It  stood  still,  looking  like  a  brown  lump  of  forest  soil,  dappled 
over  with  round  patches  of  sunlight  that  falls  through  leaves  hanging 
quite  still.  Flattening  itself  against  the  ground,  the  little  tiger  came 
crawling  toward  him ;  its  shoulder-blades  stood  up  and  on  its  back,  thin 
and  angular,  its  short  blunt  tail  quivered.  It  crouched  as  if  about  to 
spring;  but  just  then  the  fawn  leapt  with  an  impetus  that  carried  it 
clean  over  the  tiger  cub  and  quite  a  distance  out  into  the  meadow  be¬ 
fore  it  could  stop.  The  little  tiger  was  off  before  the  other  came  to  a 


58 


ISLAND-INDIA 


stand.  It  ran,  and  the  fawn  ran  after  through  grass  and  flowers,  scat¬ 
tering  the  dew.  Like  the  wind  through  waving  grasses  the  little  tiger 
ran ;  like  the  wind  through  bushes  and  nodding  ferns  the  fawn  leapt ; 
like  sunbeams  the  striped  playfellow  gleamed,  like  patches  of  sunlight 
the  dappled  one. 

And  suddenly,  as  wind  and  gleams  of  sunlight  are  gone,  so  they  were 
gone,  both  at  the  same  instant.  It  was  only  when  the  comrade  muttered 
that  they  would  not  come  back  any  more  now,  that  the  hunter  became 
aware  he  had  sat  waiting.  Had  he  been  sitting  there,  so  quietly,  among 
the  green  leaves,  forgetting  his  gun,  smiling?  And  he  saw  that  the 
comrade  too  was  smiling.  He  went  home,  slowly,  without  speaking. 

That  evening,  when  the  natives  came  with  tidings  such  as  a  hunter 
loves  to  hear,  he  gave  them  the  coin  he  always  gave,  but  he  asked  them 
no  questions  nor  did  he  call  for  his  comrade.  He  sat  in  the  dark  with 
himself,  as  with  a  stranger,  for  a  long  time  after  they  were  gone,  whilst 
the  crickets  began  to  chirp  among  the  leaves,  and  the  stars  came  out 
in  the  sky,  so  clear,  so  still.  There  was  a  tone  he  had  never  heard  as  yet 
in  the  chirping  of  the  crickets,  a  merry  sweetness,  most  gentle.  Was 
it  the  starlight?  He  could  not  but  think  of  the  eyes  of  his  young  mother, 
who  had  died  when  he  was  as  yet  a  child. 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 


THERE,  where  the  Tjikidool,  the  tawny  turbulent  river  whose 
hundred  springs  are  in  the  heart  of  the  hill  country,  insuperably 
severs  the  steep  inland  from  the  coast,  there  stands  the  Great 
Bridge.  The  masonry  of  the  southern  base  is  cemented  into  the  living 
rock  of  the  hillside  which  rises  sheer  out  of  the  ravine,  all  green  and 
wooded.  The  northern  head  stretches  far  across  the  broad  boggy  mar¬ 
gin  of  the  great  plain,  which  in  the  dry  season  is  a  marsh  and  during 
the  rains  a  foam-flecked  flood.  Its  mighty  central  pile,  broad-based, 
rock-like  in  its  enduring  strength,  is  planted  in  the  midst  of  the  drag¬ 
ging  swirl  of  the  river.  Its  twofold  triad  of  boldly  swung  arches  lifts  its 
soaring  curves  above  the  surrounding  densities  of  billowing  tree-tops. 

As  it  stands  there,  lofty  and  huge  and  broad,  the  one  thing  lofty  and 
huge  and  broad  in  the  wide  landscape,  the  bridge  may  be  seen  from 
distances  of  miles  beyond  miles.  On  the  long  journey  to  the  plain,  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  through  the  twisting  passes  of  the  hill  country,  be¬ 
yond  which  the  distant  southern  peaks  shine  in  a  diaphanous  glory  of 
blue,  this  twofold  row  of  slender  arches,  dominating  the  surging  masses 
of  the  forest  tree-tops,  gladdens  the  eyes  of  the  hill  folk  at  each  sudden 
turn  of  the  path. 

Across  all  the  green  breadths  of  the  vast  plain,  an  expanse  limitless 
and  level  as  the  sea  itself,  shining  beside  the  sea,  many-tinted  green 
beside  many-tinted  blue,  the  people  of  the  plain,  from  their  hundred 
villages  darkly  nestling  among  fruit  trees  and  embowering  bamboo 
groves,  see  the  bridge  rising  against  the  distant  heights.  On  the  ships 
hastening  from  north  and  east  and  west  to  the  important  harbour 
city  on  the  coast,  the  sailors  point  out  the  bridge  to  one  another  as  a 
landmark.  It  is  the  link  that  binds  the  hill  country  to  the  plain,  across 
the  dividing  gleam  of  the  Tjikidool. 

Like  all  the  rivers  of  this  island  world,  prone  under  the  vertical  cata¬ 
ract  of  the  sun’s  rays,  the  Tjikidool  is  a  thing  of  tides,  ebbing  and  flow¬ 
ing  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  that  aerial  ocean,  the  rain.  In  the  ebb  tide 
of  the  rain,  the  hot  season,  it  is  a  brook,  a  wandering  coolness,  where 


60  ISLAND-INDIA 

the  water  wagtails  drink,  tripping  from  one  gravel  bank  to  another. 
It  has  many  fords.  The  village  folk  walk  across,  the  women  hardly 
gathering  up  their  sarongs.  The  children,  slipping  out  of  the  bullock- 
cart  as  the  team  stands  still  to  drink,  search  out  the  deeper  spots  to 
bathe,  calling  each  other  jubilantly  to  the  transparent  little  pools  be¬ 
tween  the  boulders,  over  which,  foaming  as  it  falls,  the  water  comes 
tumbling,  flashing  in  and  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  dripping  fern  that 
hangs  from  the  stones. 

But  when  the  great  floods  of  the  west  monsoon  season  come  pouring 
down,  the  brook  suddenly  swells  into  a  swirling  torrent ;  from  the  great 
falls  under  the  Batoo  Helang,  the  Rock  of  the  Sparrow-Hawks, 
where,  bursting  forth  with  a  thunderous  roar  out  of  the  black  moun¬ 
tain  gorge,  it  leaps  headlong  into  the  spacious  freedom  of  the  plain,  it 
rushes  mud-brown  and  flecked  with  yellow  streaks  of  foam,  down  to 
the  great  lake  of  Telaga  Sarodja,  the  Lotus  Water,  its  final  quies¬ 
cence,  whence  in  five  tranquil  rivers  it  flows  out  into  the  sea. 

For  the  population  of  the  Tjikidool  basin  there  is  at  these  times  no 
way  to  the  plain  but  the  bridge. 

From  the  beginning  of  one  season  of  change,  therefore,  to  the  end 
of  the  other,  an  unbroken  stream  of  traffic  passes  over  the  bridge  all 
day  and  all  night,  cool  night  in  which  the  Oriental  loves  to  travel — a 
river  of  human  beings  crossing  the  river  of  waves.  Continuous,  it  flows 
on,  with  an  even  murmur  of  voices,  a  soft  deep  rumour  resonant  with 
that  ever  recurrent  O  which  renders  sonorous  the  speech  of  so  many 
mountain  peoples  all  over  the  world — an  echo  of  the  bubbling,  gur¬ 
gling  sound  that  comes  from  under  waterfalls  and  out  of  torrent- 
shaken  ravines.  At  regular  intervals  it  is  broken  in  upon  by  the  transi¬ 
tory  thudding  roar,  a  sound  of  the  daytime  only,  of  the  trains  running 
from  the  harbour  city  in  the  north,  whitely  resplendent  against  the 
blue  of  the  sea,  to  the  many  recently  begun  plantations  and  industrial 
concerns  in  the  hill  country.  Down  the  middle  of  the  bridge  the  long 
file  of  cars  thunderously  rushes  by  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  smoke,  which 
darkens  afar  off  the  mirroring  river  and  the  reflections  of  the  little  low 
brown  houses  crouching  together  on  the  bank  like  native  bathers  chat¬ 
tering  in  friendly  groups.  And  on  either  side  of  the  glittering  road  of 
rails,  undisturbed  by  the  violent  haste  and  heat,  the  traffic  of  the  coun- 


61 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

try  folk  flows  evenly  on,  in  long  files  of  pedestrians  ever  following  one 
another,  which,  at  most,  turn  aside  for  a  moment  when  a  tinkling  bronze 
bell  gives  warning  of  the  approach  of  a  bullock-cart,  creaking  and 
squeaking  slowly  along  on  wheels  that  are  solid  disks  of  tree  trunk. 
Long  strings  of  packhorses,  with  bulging  loads  of  forest  produce,  jog 
past  the  long  strings  of  people  with  a  rattling  clatter  of  hoofs  over  the 
planks,  small  creatures  recognizable  sometimes  by  a  slash  in  the  ear  as 
coming  from  the  herds  of  some  chieftain  of  horse-herds  on  the  wild 
southeastern  islands.  As,  impatient  for  the  inn  on  the  farther  side  and 
a  chat  with  market  folk,  taking  their  rest  over  a  meal  of  rice  served  up 
on  a  shred  of  banana-leaf  and  a  bowl  of  steaming  leaf-coffee,  the  driver 
eggs  them  on  with  a  hoarse  cry  from  the  depth  of  his  parched  throat, 
they  break  into  a  trot  that  makes  the  long  planking  of  the  bridge  to 
rattle  from  end  to  end. 

Coming  in  the  early  morning  and  returning  in  the  afternoon,  mul¬ 
titudes  of  children  pass  over  the  bridge  on  their  way  to  and  from  the 
school  which  has  been  opened  since  the  building  of  the  bridge.  The 
shaggy-headed  boys,  half  in  and  half  out  of  their  gay-coloured  badju, 
show  each  other  their  tops  or,  securely  imprisoned  in  a  small  tube  of 
bamboo,  a  cricket  caught  by  night  with  a  decoy  light  set  amongst  a 
heap  of  stones,  which  they  tease  with  blades  of  grass  to  make  it  fight. 
The  little  girls,  their  hair  oiled  and  combed  smoothly,  as  shiny  as  a 
mirror,  and  a  flower  stuck  into  the  comical  little  knot  at  the  back  of  the 
head,  walk  with  eyes  demurely  cast  down,  carrying  their  slates  and 
reading-books  on  the  hip,  as  they  see  mother  do  with  their  baby  brother. 

Hesitatingly,  and  avoiding  the  stream  of  the  young  and  alert,  there 
move  along — not  a  day  passes  without  many  of  them  coming — those 
who  seek  the  new  hospital,  some  shading  their  eyes  with  their  hands 
from  the  fierce  glare  of  sky  and  river  around  the  bridge,  others  who 
stumble  along  and,  leaning  against  the  balustrade,  pause  to  rest  a  ban¬ 
daged  foot;  in  numbers,  too,  mothers,  each  with  a  pale  child  asleep  in 
her  carrying  scarf. 

The  paths  that  all  this  multitude  have  made,  imprinting  in  the  soil 
with  wheels  and  hoofs  and  naked  feet  the  record  of  their  desire  for  the 
rich  plain,  come  out  of  all  the  distances  of  the  landscape  south  of  the 
great  river.  Some  there  are  that  run  along  the  shore  down  from  the 
great  waterfalls,  where  the  ground  is  always  slightly  a-tremble  with  the 


62  ISLAND-INDIA 

thud  of  the  down-thundering  floods  and  the  air  is  damp  and  cool  even 
at  noon  with  the  rising  vapour ;  the  tangled  growth  of  the  slopes  and  the 
thousands  of  purple,  orange,  and  light  red  flower-disks  of  the  lantana 
which  shine  out  so  gaily  from  amongst  the  dull  rough  leaves,  are  al¬ 
ways  delicately  bedewed.  These  narrow  paths  glide  sinuous  and  smooth 
like  little  playful  snakes  through  the  cool  grass.  Others  come  down 
from  the  steeps,  past  sudden  juts  of  rock  and  precipitous  slopes,  where 
the  slender  young  trees  stand  as  if  rearing;  they  dart  into  sight,  grey 
out  of  green,  and  dive  down  again,  like  a  doe  leaping  down  the  hills. 
Through  the  yellow-grey  alang-alang  grass  that  sucks  up  the  sun’s  heat 
and  holds  it  till  the  wilderness  is  as  a  seething  pool,  the  narrow  path 
creeps  on  like  a  tiger  a-hunting;  it  is  to  be  guessed  at  only  by  an  all  but 
imperceptible  trembling  of  the  tall  white  blossom  plumes  as  some  trav¬ 
eller  passes  along,  feeling  his  way  with  arms  upraised  to  protect  his  face 
from  the  knife-edged  leaves.  The  mountain  paths  descend,  steep  and 
twisting,  following  the  margin  of  the  dark  forest  from  the  far-off 
heights,  where,  bluish-black  with  its  own  vapours,  it  clings  to  the  moun¬ 
tain-side  like  some  drooping  thunder-cloud ;  along  all  the  ever  lessening, 
ever  tenderer-tinted  slopes,  down  to  that  last  one,  which,  with  its 
wealth  of  crowding  tree-tops  and  sprouting  thousand-hued  under¬ 
growth,  glides  softly  down  into  the  river.  As  deliberately  as  the  heavily 
laden  ponies  driven  along  by  the  charcoal-burners,  these  paths  proceed. 
And  some  there  are  that  come  down  the  hills  where  the  slope  is  hewn 
out  and  banked  up  into  terraced  fields;  as  daintily  and  carefully  as 
women  planting  rice  they  glide  along  the  narrow  dykes  and  over  the 
little  glittering  falls  of  the  irrigation  water. 

But  the  great  road  from  the  south  coast,  which,  through  the  depths 
of  the  forest,  moves  broad  and  stately  toward  the  bridge,  advances  like 
a  prince  riding  at  the  head  of  his  nobles. 

As  many  and  as  varied  as  the  ways  are  the  desires  that  go  out  to¬ 
ward  the  bridge.  And  the  bridge  rises  up  to  meet  them  all,  broad  to 
receive,  strong  to  bear,  like  some  good-natured  giant  who,  bestriding 
the  stream,  his  feet  planted  firmly  upon  the  opposite  sides  of  the  foam¬ 
ing  ravine,  takes  up  a  whole  swarm  of  little  people  at  once  on  his  broad 
back  and  gently  sets  them  down  again  where  they  wish  to  be,  in  the  rich 
plain,  which  holds  their  satisfaction  and  their  ever  increasing  desire. 

Therefore,  as  it  dominates  the  landscape  from  near  and  from  far,  so 


The  Bridge 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  63 

the  bridge  dominates  the  daily  life  and  daily  thought  of  the  mountain 
people.  They  have  numberless  proverbs  concerning  it;  it  stands  for  a 
symbol  of  many  things.  To  the  bridge  they  compare  faithful  friend¬ 
ship,  help  that  forestalls  supplicating  need,  patience  that  wearies  not, 
however  heavy  the  burden,  far-sighted  forethought  that  preserves 
from  accident  and  adversity.  In  the  pantoon-rhymes  which  they  sing 
on  festive  evenings,  they  play  a  game  of  invention  and  imagination 
with  it.  The  building  of  the  bridge  makes  a  division  in  their  recollec¬ 
tions,  a  hither  and  thither  in  time.  “That  is  a  matter  of  the  days  before 
the  Bridge,”  they  will  say  of  what  is  past  and  gone,  of  old-time  events. 
Parents  tell  young  people  how  much  sweeter  life  is  now,  in  the  times 
since  the  bridge,  than  it  was  before;  how  much  happier  the  sons  and 
daughters  are  than  the  fathers  and  the  mothers  were  in  the  days  of 
their  youth.  And  they  often  add,  “Blessed  be  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge, 
and  blessed  be  his  ancestors  up  to  Adam  the  father  of  us  all  and  Eve 
the  mother  of  us  all!” 

In  their  talk  of  him  the  name  that  he  inherited  from  his  father  is 
never  heard;  it  is  too  harsh  to  their  lips,  accustomed  to  soft  liquid 
sounds;  nor  do  they  give  him  his  official  title,  as  is  their  wont  when 
speaking  of  those  whom  they  know  only  as  the  bearers  of  the  alien  au¬ 
thority  over  them:  ever  the  same  the  authority,  a  great  and  lasting 
thing ;  puny  and  fleeting  the  man  who  bears  it.  F or  him,  as  if  he  were 
one  of  themselves,  they  follow  their  own  ancestral  custom,  which  with 
the  name  plainly  denotes  the  person,  according  to  some  quality  of  the 
body  or  of  the  soul ;  so  that  a  child  bears  one  name,  but  another  name  is 
borne  by  the  grown  man  or  woman,  by  which  they  are  commended  as 
the  strong  one,  or  the  wise  one,  or  the  heart-rejoicing  beauty.  So  they 
name  him  in  praise  of  what  he  was  to  them :  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge ; 
or  as  often,  too,  they  will  say  “Our  Friend.” 

Near  the  northern  abutment  of  the  bridge — where  the  low  marshy 
ground,  which  becomes  a  river  in  every  rainy  season  and  remains  a 
morass  for  many  weeks  in  the  season  of  change,  slopes  up  toward  the 
firm  land  and  the  populous  high  road — there  stands  an  ancient  banyan 
tree,  a  growth  of  a  hundred  stems,  of  a  thousand  swaying  air  roots,  a 
forest  in  itself ;  the  Builder  used  to  take  shelter  in  its  shadow,  as  day  by 
day  he  watched  the  progress  of  his  work.  F rom  off  the  coupled  barges 
that  floated  the  pile-driver  the  men  could  see  him  as  they  drove  in  the 


64 


ISLAND-INDIA 


piles  for  the  foundation  of  the  central  pier.  And  as,  climbing  up  out  of 
the  quaking  mud  of  the  sunk  shaft  that  was  to  form  the  foundation  in 
the  slippery  unstable  mire  of  the  shore,  the  diver  paused  and  drew 
breath,  it  was  the  Builder  whom,  first  of  all,  he  saw.  F rom  the  first  the 
wood-cutters  in  the  mountain  forest,  and  the  lime-burners  on  the  slope, 
and  the  mandoor  of  the  Decauville  railway,  which  runs  down  from  the 
heights  to  the  river  with  its  heavily  laden  trucks,  used  to  point  out  to 
each  other  the  glittering  white  spot  underneath  the  black-green  hill  of 
the  banyan  tree.  The  Chinaman  who  secretly  bought  away  the  cement 
out  of  the  mixing  troughs  never  returned  after  that  dark  night — it  had 
seemed  to  him  absolutely  safe — when  a  white  shape,  issuing  out  of  the 
darkness  of  the  banyan,  had  moved  toward  his  heavily  laden  barge. 

In  the  mighty  parent-stem  of  the  multitudinous  tree,  a  grey  rock  to 
the  eye,  rent,  cloven,  and  hollowed  out  into  deep  cavities,  the  Builder 
had  carved  his  name;  half  in  meditative  idleness,  half  perhaps  in  an 
earnest  that  understood  the  strange  ways  of  thinking  of  the  hill  folk. 
As  they  appeared  to  the  first  who  noticed  these  incomprehensible  char¬ 
acters,  so  they  seem  to  this  day,  to  those  who  reverently  contemplate 
them,  a  magic  spell,  powerful  to  ward  off  all  evil  from  the  bridge.  They 
believe  these  tokens  to  contain  the  profound  knowledge  and  the  virtue 
of  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge.  They  hang  jessamine  wreaths  on  the  tree, 
little  bags  made  of  plaited  strips  of  banana  leaves  in  which  sacrificial 
rice  has  been  boiled,  and  ornaments  of  gilt  and  coloured  paper,  to  se¬ 
cure  a  portion  of  this  inexhaustible  heritage  of  good  luck.  A  man  un¬ 
dertaking  a  long  journey,  a  woman  on  the  way  to  market,  is  not  likely 
to  pass  by  the  banyan  without  some  such  offering.  There  are  even  tales 
of  more  than  one  mother  who  took  a  sick  child  thither  and  carried  it 
home  restored  to  health  and  smiling.  Such  power  there  is  in  the  sign  of 
the  Builder  of  the  Bridge! 

Of  him  and  of  the  building  of  the  bridge,  and  of  the  daring  deed  by 
which  he  saved  it  from  the  devastating  bandjir,  at  the  time  when, 
shortly  before  its  completion  into  steadfast  strength,  it  stood  still  frail, 
they  tell  each  other  tales  which  flourish  like  legends  and  are  as  melodi¬ 
ous  as  songs.  All  through  the  mountain  district,  these  tales  wander  to 
evening  festivals  full  of  radiance  and  gamelan  music  and  lightly  sway¬ 
ing  dances ;  and  pass  over  the  rice-fields  where  girls  with  flowers  in  their 
hair  gather  the  ears  which  the  youths  carry  away  in  heavy  sheaves ;  and 


65 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

to  the  bathing  place,  cool  with  fresh-smelling  water  that  leaps  down  in 
a  cloud  of  spray;  and  to  the  shaded  spot  under  the  eaves,  where  the 
batik-worker  sits  before  her  richly  colouring  fabric,  carefully  held  fast 
against  the  slight  breeze  that  rocks  the  section  of  bamboo  stem  sus¬ 
pended  above  her  head,  the  hive  of  the  almost  invisibly  small  noiseless 
bees  which  supply  her  with  wax  for  her  work. 

A  few  only  of  these  songs  tell  of  how  with  his  thought  he  wrought 
the  wonder,  that  road  that  raises  itself  from  the  ground  where  roads 
lie,  and,  transparent  against  the  light,  passes  through  the  air,  over  the 
foaming  and  swirling  depth,  a  fixity  to  be  trusted  in.  No  such  great 
miracle  does  this  seem  to  them  for  the  Westerner,  whom  they  know  to 
be  a  worker  of  wonders  by  his  great  knowledge.  Tooan  Allah  created 
him  thus,  even  as  he  created  him  white,  and  gave  him  power  over  dark- 
skinned  people! 

But  innumerable  and  varied  as  the  sun-flickerings  on  the  flowing 
river  are  the  stories  and  the  songs  of  the  deed  which,  with  his  naked 
body  that  shone  with  courage  and  strength,  the  Builder  did  for  the 
salvation  of  the  bridge,  when  the  bandjir,  the  terrible,  came  down  upon 
it.  It  delights  them,  even  as  the  deeds  of  the  heroes  of  ancient  song. 
They  celebrate  it,  even  as  in  the  long  nights  the  dalang,  half  singing, 
half  speaking  before  his  lighted  puppet  show,  or  the  tookang  pantoon 
who  hums  in  the  dark  to  his  instrument,  celebrates  the  feats  of  arms  of 
kings’  sons  in  the  heroic  age,  who,  in  their  battling  against  Raksasas, 
monsters  with  the  jaws  of  devouring  beasts,  and  against  fierce  giants, 
were  the  chosen  and  ever  victorious  champions  of  the  gods  in  their  ce¬ 
lestial  palaces  and  the  favoured  of  the  fragrant  and  smiling  goddesses. 

This  transfiguration  of  a  compatriot  provokes  a  certain  irony  in  the 
Westerner,  to  whom  this  man  does  not  seem,  even  for  that  heroic  deed, 
in  any  way  different  from  all  others — grey  with  the  workaday  dust  of 
the  tedious  labour  that  Westerners,  the  dominated  of  their  own  domi¬ 
nation,  have  to  toil  at  in  the  Eastern  land;  the  labour  that  wrings  out 
of  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire,  out  of  plant  and  beast  and  man  of  the  sun- 
land,  such  sustenance  for  themselves  as  they  shall  need  in  their  distant 
home,  the  day  of  return  to  which  is  always  too  far  off.  With  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders  they  say  that,  thus  glorified,  no  one  would  recognize  the 
civil  engineer  who,  when  the  line  to  the  coast  was  laid,  found  means  to 
win  over  the  Government  to  his  plan  of  building  a  bridge  across  the 


66  ISLAND-INDIA 

Tjikidool  in  order  to  open  up  the  hill-country — a  project  which,  in 
reality,  was  made  by  others  long  before  his  time  and  urged  again  and 
again  by  successive  Residents  of  the  province,  but  which  had  to  be  post¬ 
poned  on  account  of  the  more  stringent  necessities  of  military  policy 
and  of  punitive  expeditions  to  outlying  parts  of  the  colony. 

But  the  natives  choose  to  represent  their  friend  in  this  wise,  in  no 
other  or  lesser.  This  transfigured  image  of  him  is  to  them  the  true 
one — true  according  to  the  truth  of  the  heart,  which  is  to  the  truth  of 
the  senses  as  the  sweet  kernel  of  the  grain  of  rice  is  to  the  hard  and 
shining  husk.  Even  as  the  chaff  is  blown  out  of  the  sieve  of  a  woman 
winnowing  the  pounded  rice  in  the  wind,  all  outward  seeming  and  cir¬ 
cumstance  is  blown  away  out  of  the  winnowing  experience  of  time;  but 
that  which  was  in  the  heart  has  become  the  food  of  life,  even  as  the  rice- 
grain,  and  a  beginning  of  things  which,  perpetually  renewed,  still 
endure.  Therefore  they  sing  unabashed  their  songs  and  rhymes  and 
proverbs  about  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge,  and,  singing,  are  happy,  and 
at  times  feel  almost  a  desire  to  be  such  a  man  as  the  much-legended  one 
was :  strong  and  kind.  Can  this  be  yet,  can  this  be?  Terrific  as  the  band- 
jir  are  many  powers  that  forbid;  but  the  smiling  land  of  dreams  lies 
open  to  fancies  and  longings.  The  far-away  ancestors  of  this  people, 
who  found  no  living-space  for  their  hearts’  desire  on  the  hard  and  dark 
and  narrow  earth,  lifted  their  eyes  to  the  skies ;  and,  the  rains  and  gales 
of  the  monsoon  season  having  wrecked  their  hut,  they  rebuilt  it  of  stars, 
so  that  for  all  time  it  shines  on  high  as  the  Little  Slanting  House,  the 
constellation  which  Westerners  have  named  the  Southern  Cross.  And 
they  arose  from  the  weary  labour  in  the  rice-field  as  the  eternally  un¬ 
wearied  Ploughman,  Orion  of  the  Westerners,  who,  in  starry  shape 
and  girt  with  stars,  steers  a  star-built  plough  that  moves  of  its  own 
strength  through  azure  glebe  and  pool  of  cloud.  Ever  thus,  they  of 
the  present  day  who  find  no  living-space  in  the  cold  dark  hard  reality 
that  now  oppresses  their  hearts’  desire  of  dominion  over  the  powers  of 
nature,  of  the  happiness  of  a  life  in  fraternity,  raise  to  the  heaven  of 
poesy  their  vain  longings ;  and  in  that  glorious  one  who  conquered  the 
whirling  flood  and  built  a  road  for  the  lonely  dwellers  in  the  hill  forest 
toward  the  people  of  the  spacious  plain,  they  image  forth  their  hoped- 
for  self. 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  67 

An  hour  came  and  a  place  was  found  for  the  meeting  together  of  all 
these  many  imaginations,  memories,  and  saws.  It  was  in  the  night,  a 
night  of  the  season  of  change,  between  the  months  of  the  sun  and  the 
months  of  the  rain ;  at  the  bridge.  As  is  their  wont,  when  there  is  danger 
of  a  sudden  flood,  a  bandjir,  coming  down,  the  men  of  the  river  villages 
were  on  guard,  to  protect  the  bridge  from  driftwood.  Thus  there  were 
many  together  there  who  at  other  times  are  far  apart. 

Old  Hadji  Moosa,  who  had  been  the  friend  of  the  Builder  of  the 
Bridge,  was  seated  in  the  circle  around  the  leaping  flames  of  the  watch- 
fire;  and  the  village  headman  of  Gandasoli  was  there,  Soot  an  Arab, 
who,  as  a  mandoor  of  the  wood-cutters,  had  helped  to  build  the  bridge 
— a  man  from  the  south  coast,  from  a  village  of  pirates.  And  with  the 
multitude,  who  paused  in  passing  and  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  at¬ 
tracted  out  of  the  chilly  darkness  by  the  blaze  of  the  watch-fire  and, 
even  more,  by  a  faint  tinkling  of  gamelan  music  arising  by  whiles, 
Soomarti  from  Kebonan  Baroo  had  come,  who  was  to  go  to  Holland 
to  be  a  student  at  a  University,  but  whom  his  companions  still  called 
Moodjaddi,  as  in  the  time  he  herded  his  father’s  one  buffalo  and  hid 
himself  amongst  the  bushes  to  read  the  books  with  which  the  teacher  at 
the  Dutch  school  always  kept  him  supplied. 

There  where  the  glow  of  the  fire  faded,  but  where  the  darkness  which 
fell  from  the  great  banyan  and  its  fringe  of  air-roots  was  not  yet  dense, 
twixt  light  and  shade,  the  poet-musician,  Si-Bagoos,  was  seated 
amongst  his  musicians  and  their  manifold  musical  instruments. 

And  the  daughter  of  the  Radhen  Regent  was  there,  Rookmini,  of 
whom  it  was  said  that,  in  her  father’s  stately  house,  she  had  refused  to 
accept  the  homage  due  to  an  elder  from  younger  sisters,  and  wished 
to  be  their  equal  in  all  things.  And  now  she  taught  this  new  way  of 
living  to  the  girls  who  came  to  her  school,  in  the  great  house  that  her 
father  had  given  her.  Daughters  of  the  native  nobility  came  there,  and 
children  from  the  village  huts.  She  would  have  them  all  be  as  sisters 
and  herself  a  mother’s  sister  amongst  them.  She  was  not  seated 
amongst  the  market  folk  by  the  road,  but  kept  under  the  banyan  where 
many  wreaths  of  jessamine  and  champaka  gave  forth  sweet  fragrance; 
by  the  sign  of  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge  she  sat,  in  the  midst  of  an  ever 
growing  circle  of  women  and  girls ;  the  clipped  air-roots  of  the  banyan, 


68  ISLAND-INDIA 

which  hung  down  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  ground,  formed  a  half 
transparent  curtain  between  them  and  the  men  round  the  fire ;  dusky 
and  transparent,  it  hung  before  the  women  like  rain,  seen  against  the 
evening  glow;  to  the  men  it  was,  in  the  empurpling  firelight,  like  steep 
rays  of  morning  red  playing  over  a  dark  drift  of  cloud. 

As  many  people,  grown  men  and  women,  youths  and  maidens  and 
little  children,  as  at  other  times  can  only  be  found  at  the  passar  or  at 
some  feast  which  a  nobleman  gives  to  an  entire  district,  were  gathered 
by  the  bridge  and  by  the  dark  roadside  on  that  night. 

In  the  clouded  heavens  the  moon  drifted  like  a  boat  amongst  grey 
billows,  overwhelmed  at  one  moment,  emerging  the  next.  In  the  shift¬ 
ing  light  the  steep  southern  shore  of  the  river,  and  the  bridge,  and 
glimpses  of  the  distant  plain  with  an  expanse  of  sea  seemingly  sloping 
up  toward  the  horizon  all  silvery  with  moonlight,  shone  out  and  again 
disappeared  into  darkness.  The  Tjikidool  roared  against  the  abut¬ 
ments  of  the  bridge  and  around  the  central  pile;  the  water  voices  joined 
in  the  tale  that  then  was  told,  and  that  since  has  been  repeated  how 
often  in  how  many  places  on  how  many  days  and  nights ! — a  strange 
tale,  a  tale  of  great  things  and  of  smallest  intermingled.  The  singing 
of  Si-Bagoos  was  in  it,  and  the  teaching  of  Hadji  Moosa,  and  the 
plaint  of  the  old  men  who  still  remembered  the  sorrowful  days  of  soli¬ 
tude,  and  the  chattering  story  of  the  men  who  knew  about  the  felling  of 
the  wood  and  the  digging  of  the  foundations  and  the  building  of  the 
bridge,  the  thieving  and  receiving  and  the  secret  trafficking  in  building 
materials,  and  the  squabbles  between  hill  folk  and  people  of  the  plains. 
As  full  of  inventions  it  was  as  the  sarong  which  a  skilful  batikker  has 
painted  with  dragons,  butterflies,  and  flowers,  red,  blue,  and  brown  on 
a  yellow  ground.  As  diverse  it  was  as  the  water  of  the  river  which,  surg¬ 
ing  out  of  the  darkness  all  heavy  with  drift,  mingles  in  one  wave  the 
limpid  waters  of  the  mountain  lake,  cool  with  the  light  of  the  stars,  and 
the  refuse  from  the  village  ditch.  A  thing  of  the  season  of  change  was 
the  river  that  night ;  a  thing  of  the  season  of  change  was  also  the  tale. 
And  the  bridge,  dimly  seen  by  glimpse  of  moon  and  flicker  of  flame, 
stood  as  a  watcher  over  all,  the  deed  perfected  protecting  the  memory 
of  the  deed  in  its  growth,  and  the  hope  of  deeds  to  be  accomplished  in 
the  days  to  come. 


69 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

There  had  been  a  cloud-burst  in  the  highlands  that  night.  Now  all  the 
mountains  rushed  with  rain;  and  the  great  river  rose.  Out  of  all  its 
thousand  springs  on  cloudy  slopes  and  in  ravines  dark  with  damp 
wood;  out  of  its  mountain  meres  tranquilly  clear,  reflecting  the  sky 
only  and  the  soaring  eagle ;  out  of  the  bubbling  sources  on  the  hillside, 
the  springs,  the  rills,  the  brooks,  the  steep  cascades  of  the  ravine  that 
scatter  in  a  flying  spray  over  the  tops  of  the  slender-stemmed  wood 
striving  up  toward  the  sunshine  out  of  depths  of  darkness ;  out  of  the 
pools,  purple  with  water-hyacinths;  out  of  the  great  lake,  where  the 
tall-stemmed  lotos  flowers,  white  and  red,  glimmer  on  the  wind,  a 
tremulous  radiance  seen  from  afar ;  out  of  the  dull  green  marsh,  misty 
with  clouds  of  mosquitoes,  hideously  astir  with  the  writhing  of  pale- 
bellied  snakes,  breathing  fever  over  the  shivering  villages;  out  of  the 
flooded  terrace  fields  of  the  hill  range  and  the  rice-swamps  of  the 
plain;  out  of  all  its  tens  of  thousands  of  gathering  places,  the  water 
was  flowing  toward  the  Tjikidool. 

It  was  raining  in  the  highlands,  raining.  Over  the  cloud-swathed 
mountain-tops  the  air  was  all  rain. 

The  zenith  was  a  black  well-spring,  the  clouds  its  waves.  Out  of  it 
gushed,  transparently  dark,  a  fall  of  jetting  streams ;  out  of  it  in  a  cata¬ 
ract,  standing  steep  between  sky  and  mount ain-top,  sprang  the  Tjiki¬ 
dool.  The  river  of  rain  beat  down  upon  the  glistening  mountain-tops, 
blunting  and  dimming  them  as  the  ripple  blunts  and  dims  pebbles  in 
the  valley  bed.  The  mountain  forest  stooped  under  it,  like  pliant 
water-growth  under  the  wave,  palely  bending  and  dragging  on  its 
roots  to  follow  the  impetuous  current.  The  underwood  along  the  brink 
broke  away  and  shot  down  the  slope,  that  was  changed  into  a  brown 
cascade.  The  deep  ravine  had  leapt  up,  a  seething  whirl.  It  tore  at  its 
walls ;  bushes,  trees,  earth,  and  rocks  tottered  and  were  precipitated  into 
the  sounding  depth.  The  waterfalls  by  the  Stone  of  the  Sparrow- 
Hawks,  where  the  torrent  bursts  forth  from  its  black  mountain  gorge 
and  leaps  down  into  the  space  and  splendour  of  the  great  plain,  came 
down  crashing  with  the  weight  of  rolling  masses  of  rock  and  hurtling 
trees  dragged  along  with  root  and  branch. 

In  the  villages  downstream  the  people  sat  watchful.  More  than  one 
thought  anxiously  of  his  plantations  on  the  slopes.  The  coffee  had 
blossomed  so  profusely!  The  rice  was  sprouting  so  lustily!  Alas!  the 


70  ISLAND-INDIA 

shrubs,  surely,  were  lying  broken  and  torn  under  the  muddy  gravel 
now;  no  doubt  but  the  rice-field  was  floating  downstream,  glebe  and 
stalk !  And  the  husbandman  once  more  cursed  the  nomads  of  the  west¬ 
ern  hills  who  set  the  hillside  on  fire  to  sow  their  rice  in  the  ashes — the 
reckless  destroyers  of  the  forest,  which  holds  the  slopes  together  with 
its  twining  roots  and,  catching  the  rain,  gently  filters  it  through  its 
spread  of  leaves.  And  all  the  more  angry  he  grew  with  the  light¬ 
hearted  young  men,  who  had  gone  up  into  the  hills  as  to  a  feast,  a 
merry  hunting  party,  following  the  sound  of  the  rumbling  landslip. 
They  well  knew  that  the  bandjir,  the  fierce  hunter,  had  slain  numberless 
creatures  of 'the  forest,  flinging  them  down  hither  and  thither  on  foam- 
covered  heaps  of  boulders,  and  they  would  bring  away  the  quarry  be¬ 
fore  the  swarms  of  small  beasts  of  prey  came  for  them,  and,  in  the 
evening,  with  his  green  shining  eyes,  the  tiger. 

As  the  evening  red  broke  dully  through  a  smoky  brown  of  clouds, 
the  river  to  the  east  of  the  Stone  of  the  Sparrow-Hawks  began  to  rise. 
Sluggish  and  turgid,  the  flood  rose.  In  Tanah  Abang,  the  first  village 
downstream  from  the  falls,  the  watchman  stood  at  the  gate,  listening; 
and  as  he  caught  the  signal  for  which  he  was  waiting,  sounding  out 
above  the  thundering  crash  of  the  cataract,  a  long,  deep,  clear  note,  he 
seized  the  wooden  hammer  and  with  a  swing  of  his  arm  struck  it  against 
the  suspended  hollow  block.  It  rang  again.  Over  the  village,  over  the 
river,  over  the  hills,  the  bandjir  signal  resounded,  in  answer  toward 
the  Falls,  in  warning  toward  the  Lakes.  The  swinging  hollow  trunk, 
the  tree-bell,  a  crier  in  the  native  villages,  mightily  he  called,  called  to 
the  other  bells  upstream  and  downstream,  called  all  the  villages  along 
the  river. 

They  heard  it,  one  after  another.  And  one  after  another  repeated  the 
tidings  and  the  warning : 

“Be  on  your  guard,  be  on  your  guard!  The  river  is  rising!” 

It  grew  into  a  chorus.  The  villages  on  the  hills  joined  in,  and  the 
villages  of  the  plain.  There  were  some  calling  here,  there  were  others 
calling  there;  they  called  aloud  through  the  darkness.  On  the  river- 
shore,  in  the  rice-fields,  on  the  slopes  and  the  hilltops,  in  the  valleys,  in 
the  forest  they  called  one  another  to  come  and  watch  by  the  bridge,  that 
the  bandjir,  the  ruining  hill  of  waters  and  woods,  might  not,  with  its 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  71 

ramming  tree-trunks,  destroy  the  piles  and  the  abutments  of  the 
bridge. 

The  villages  were  calling  through  the  night.  The  voice  of  each  had  a 
note  of  its  own.  The  voices  of  the  villages  on  the  river  were  clear — the 
water  carried  them  along  in  perfect  purity.  But  the  hamlets  in  the 
forest  gave  forth  a  muffled  sound;  the  weight  of  mud-soft  leafage 
heavy  with  damp  lay  upon  the  forest.  The  voices  from  the  slopes  and 
the  heights  were  tenuous ;  they  glided,  tremulous  and  tense  as  the  flight 
of  the  swooping  swallow.  And  those  in  the  narrow  valleys  mumbled 
indistinctly.  And  those  of  the  plain  rang  out  with  a  spacious  sound.  A 
listener  with  a  fine  ear  might  have  discerned  the  lie  and  shape  of  the 
village-bearing  land  by  the  notes  of  these  bells  as  plainly  as  if  he  had 
seen  it  spread  out  in  the  sunshine,  so  clearly  it  stood  imaged  in  sound. 

At  first  the  bells  had  called  all  with  the  same  call,  uniformlv,  in  one 
measure.  But  after  a  time  there  came  a  change;  for  each  had  now  a 
message  and  an  answer  of  its  own  to  give. 

Some  called:  “The  river  is  rising,  rising!”  and  others:  “The  river  is 
rising:  guard  the  bridge!”  To  this  all  together  answered:  “We  are  on 
our  way,  are  on  our  way;  we  are  on  the  way  all  together.”  And  a  few: 
“We  are  keeping  watch!” 

But  suddenly — and  then  all  the  others  were  silent — a  new  voice  re¬ 
sounded,  the  greatest  of  all,  the  deepest,  in  which  there  was  the  most 
of  earnest  and  authority.  That  was  the  great  bell  by  the  bridge. 

It  called  out  over  the  nocturnal  landscape:  “Come,  come  ye  all! 
Sons,  come!” 

In  the  dark  houses  the  men  rose.  The  women  handed  them  as  they 
went  the  kindled  torch  that  was  to  light  their  way.  On  all  sides  then 
there  began  a  flickering,  and  there,  where  the  great  bell-voice  re¬ 
sounded,  a  great  light  shone  up.  As  the  sound  of  the  bell  was  deeper 
and  stronger  than  all  other  sounds,  so  this  light  was  broader  and 
brighter  than  all  other  lights.  It  shone  out  afar,  red  and  full  of  scintil¬ 
lations  as  the  red  star  which,  in  the  constellation  of  the  Ploughman,  is 
the  bleeding  wound  in  his  foot,  stung  by  a  small  snake  of  the  sawah. 
Steadfast  it  stood  among  the  multitude  of  wandering  lights,  the  one 
motionless,  as  steady  as  the  star.  They  stood  by  one  another,  frater¬ 
nally,  the  great  bell  and  the  great  watch-fire,  twin  signs  of  the  bridge. 


72  ISLAND-INDIA 

Toward  them  moved  all  the  little  flickerings,  the  hastily  swinging, 
swaying,  waving  ones. 

As  the  calling  bells  revealed  the  villages,  so  the  paths  in  the  land¬ 
scape  were  revealed  by  the  moving  lights — all  the  paths  that  lead 
toward  the  bridge,  the  upward  paths  out  of  the  plain,  the  downward 
paths  from  the  hills,  the  paths  along  the  river  upstream  and  down¬ 
stream,  the  paths  on  the  edge  of  the  forest.  As  they  glided  onward 
they  drew  through  the  darkness  the  meshes  of  a  net  of  roads,  an  im¬ 
mense  net  which  a  giant  fisherman  standing  upon  the  bridge  was  haul¬ 
ing  up  out  of  the  waters  of  the  night.  Ever  more  numerous  and  ever 
brighter  strings  and  meshes  of  light  he  drew  up  to  him,  while  all  the 
time  the  great  voice  at  the  bridge  continued  calling:  “Come,  sons, 
come !”  And  still  the  answering  cry  came  back:  “All  our  men  are  on  the 
way!”  “We  are  drawing  near!”  “We  are  making  ready!”  The  glitter¬ 
ing  net  shrunk  together,  became  a  billowing  circle  of  light  around  the 
great  fire  at  the  bridge,  was  burnt  up  in  it. 

The  bells  fell  silent. 

By  this  the  women  in  the  dark  villages  knew,  and  told  the  children, 
sitting  upon  the  sleeping-mat  wide-eyed  and  restless,  that  the  watch 
was  come  together  by  the  bridge.  By  the  great  fire  far  away  father  was 
sitting  now,  and  he  was  watching  for  them,  that  the  bandjir  might  do 
no  harm  to  the  bridge  that  they  passed  over  every  day  when  they  went 
to  school. 

The  men  from  the  four  villages  that  neighbour  Gandasoli  had  the 
first  turn,  together  with  the  men  from  Gandasoli.  The  village  head¬ 
man,  Sootan  Arab,  who  had  been  a  mandoor  of  the  wood-cutters  at  the 
building  of  the  bridge,  called  them  by  name,  each  according  to  his  place 
and  duty,  to  the  shores  of  the  river,  with  hooks  and  loops  to  catch  the 
driftwood  and  make  it  fast  to  the  trees  on  the  bank;  or  to  the  abut¬ 
ments  and  the  centre  of  the  bridge,  to  fend  it  off  with  long  poles  from 
the  central  pile  and  steer  it  under  the  arches  so  that  it  might  float  away 
to  sea. 

The  tall,  lean  man,  who,  by  his  broad  chest  and  shoulders,  might  be 
known  for  one  who  had  rowed  a  prao  on  the  sea  from  childhood,  and 
who  had  a  sea-face  too,  bold-featured  and  fierce-eyed,  raised  his  ring¬ 
ing  voice.  Tones  of  as  searching  a  resonance  are  heard  on  the  islands 
along  the  coast  of  New  Guinea,  where  the  wild  Alfoor  folk  wind  Tri- 


New  Quine  a 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  73 

ton  horns  calling  one  another  from  island  to  island,  over  hills  and 
flickering  sounds,  with  the  peals  of  that  magnificent  trumpet. 

Hadji  Moosa,  the  old  man  who  had  been  the  friend  of  the  Builder 
of  the  Bridge,  sat  close  to  the  fire,  his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees 
and  his  wrinkled  face  raised  to  the  warmth  of  the  flames.  It  moved  and 
changed  strangely  in  the  changing  light.  So  deep  in  thought  the  old 
man  sat  that  he  never  noticed  the  pealing  voice  of  command,  nor  the 
faces  of  the  multitude  around  the  fire,  nor  those  of  the  constant  proces¬ 
sion  across  the  dark  bridge;  faces  which  in  advancing  became  distinct 
for  an  instant  in  the  radiance,  then  melted  back  into  darkness  while 
those  succeeding  them  were  lit  up. 

There  were  many  people  journeying  to  the  plain,  because  of  the 
great  passar  at  Djalang  Tiga,  and  of  the  dedication  festival  at  the  new 
sugar-mill  that  a  Chinaman  had  built;  and  especially  because  of  the 
expected  arrival  in  the  harbour  of  a  ship  bringing  home  pilgrims  from 
Mecca.  Dark  and  with  a  deep  muttering  like  that  of  the  river  in  the 
depth,  the  throng  streamed  by.  And  as  in  the  river  of  waves,  so  in  the 
river  of  humanity  there  were  sudden  eddies  and  whirls,  when  a  group 
of  pedestrians  halted  to  ask  or  to  bring  tidings  of  the  bandjir,  and 
those  advancing  paused  and  those  who  had  gone  on  turned  back  to  lis¬ 
ten.  As  the  steadily  rising  river  here  and  there  scooped  out  a  tiny  bay  in 
the  shore  where  the  on-hurrying  waters  eddied  for  a  while  and  then 
became  even,  so  the  stream  of  travellers  here  and  there  along  the  side 
of  the  road  deposited  knots  of  people  who  prepared  themselves  to 
spend  the  night  there.  Amongst  them  there  were  many  young  folk 
who,  from  afar,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  brass  gamelan  instruments  on 
the  edge  of  the  flame-lit  circle,  and  had  called  out  to  one  another  that 
surely  the  Dalang  of  Soombertingghi  was  resting  there  on  his  way  to 
the  consecration  festival  in  the  plains;  Si-Bagoos  it  was,  of  a  certainty! 
That  was  a  decoy  light  indeed,  that  glimmer  of  waiting  music!  They 
came  to  it  as  crickets  to  the  lamp  of  the  cricket-catcher,  shining  out  of  a 
heap  of  stones  at  night. 

Then  in  the  dusk  of  the  banyan,  where  the  musicians  were  gathered, 
they  became  aware  of  indistinct  female  shapes.  The  women  who  had 
gone  up  with  flower  offerings  to  the  sign  of  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge 
remained  there.  That  was  because  of  Rookmini,  said  one  to  the  other. 

Timid,  but  eager,  the  women  approached  the  Radhen’s  daughter 


74  ISLAND-INDIA 

and  took  courage  as,  in  answer  to  their  murmured  salutation,  they 
heard  her  grave,  gentle  voice,  that  was  like  the  deep  crooning  of  the 
turtle-dove,  the  bringer  of  good  luck.  They  seated  themselves  around 
Rookmini,  in  the  darkness  that  fell  from  the  banyan.  As  around  the 
watch-fire  the  lighted  circle  of  men  grew,  so  around  her  the  dim  circle 
of  women  still  grew.  The  fringe  of  clipped  air-roots  hung  between 
them,  transparently  dark,  interwoven  with  shifting  gleams  of  firelight. 

So  gently  as  to  be  imperceptible  save  by  the  gradual  increase  of  the 
fragrance  drifting  from  the  flower  offerings  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  a 
waft  of  cooler  air  passed  by,  the  first  soft  breath  of  night.  And,  as  if 
borne  along  on  that  slight  current,  together  with  the  scent  of  the  roses 
and  the  jessamine,  a  soft  music  arose  from  the  gamelan  orchestra,  so 
restful  in  its  rhythm  that  listeners  felt  its  ripple  like  the  flowing  of  the 
blood  in  their  veins. 

The  voice  of  Si-Bagoos  then  arose  in  half-singing  speech.  As  upon 
placidly  flowing  water  blossoms  drift,  fluttered  down  out  of  overhang¬ 
ing  foliage,  and  a  rosebud  floats  amongst  them  or  a  purple  oleander 
flower  that  has  dropped  from  the  hair  of  a  bathing  girl,  or  a  handful 
of  jessamine  out  of  the  sacrificial  basket  laid  on  the  wave  by  the  next  of 
kin  of  a  new-born  child,  so  on  the  gamelan  music  the  words  of  the  poet- 
musician  drifted. 

“As  the  fragrance  of  the  jessamine  which  women  piously  bring  to 
Our  Friend’s  resting  place,  whence  he  beheld  the  work  of  his  thought 
growing,  work  begun  and  completed  for  our  sakes,  so  in  our  hearts  is 
the  fragrance  of  gratitude  toward  him.  As  the  gleam  of  the  white 
champaka  flower  in  the  morning  sun,  when  it  shines  forth  from  dense 
leafage,  the  thought  of  his  deed  is  in  our  remembrance.  How  he  built 
the  bridge,  a  road  over  the  impassable  stream,  how  he  saved  the  bridge, 
in  the  bandjir,  striving  against  stream  and  forest,  against  the  dark 
powers,  even  as  Ardjoona  strove  against  the  Evil  Giant — thereof  we 
will  sing  and  tell.  Let  us  do  honour,  brothers,  to  the  courage  that 
sprang  not  from  desire  for  power;  nay,  that  had  its  source  in  brotherly 
love.” 

He  ceased.  With  a  slight  modulation  the  gamelan  music  glided  over 
into  another  measure.  And  now  it  became  the  melody  that  sings  a  wel¬ 
come  to  the  guests  at  the  beginning  of  a  feast. 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  75 

In  complacent  expectation  of  coming  pleasure  the  multitude  waited, 
the  women  in  the  dusk  of  the  banyan,  the  men  in  the  light  of  the  flames, 
the  throng  of  market  folk  in  the  darkness  of  the  road.  Those  who  a 
moment  ago  passed  by  without  looking  back,  lingered,  paused.  By  the 
roadside  the  groups  became  more  numerous. 

The  melody  of  welcome  ended.  Like  fireflies  in  the  dark  the  last  clear 
notes  hung  for  a  while  in  the  air,  tremblingly  afloat;  then  they  soared 
away  into  the  distance.  And  after  a  pause  of  silence  a  new  melody  be¬ 
gan,  which  was  slow  and  solemn ;  it  suited  well  with  the  darkness  and 
the  deep  muttering  of  the  river ;  it  carried  well  the  words  of  the  singer. 

“As  a  traveller  who  out  of  the  wild  and  perilous  ravine  has  been  led 
up  by  a  wise  guide  to  a  safe  place,  where  pleasant  rest  and  coolness 
await  him,  a  meal  offered  by  a  friendly  hand  with  words  of  welcome;  as 
from  the  heights  attained  the  traveller  looks  back  once  more,  plumbing 
the  depths  with  his  eyes,  and  with  his  heart  the  long  wandering,  the 
fatigue  and  the  anxiety;  then  all  the  more  does  he  rejoice  in  his  friend’s 
roof,  greeting  him  with  a  kindly  gleam — so  will  we,  living  happily  in 
the  present  day,  look  back  upon  former  times,  the  times  that  were 
before  the  building  of  the  bridge;  all  the  more  shall  we  then  rejoice  in 
the  time  that  is  now. 

“Far  off  are  the  days  and  dark  as  the  depth  of  the  ravine;  then  the 
Forest  King  was  sovereign  over  the  people  of  the  mountains,  the  Lord 
of  the  Great  Solitude.  Many  were  his  sons,  many  his  servants,  his  allies 
many  and  most  mighty.  The  spirits  served  him  that  steal  through  the 
darkness  and  entice  men  over  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  F ever  is  his  child, 
that  turns  over  on  mud  and  rotting  leaves  as  on  a  sleeping  mat.  The 
great  proud  beasts  served  him:  the  tiger  with  the  terrible  eyes  that 
flame  through  the  night,  the  wild  bull  buffalo,  between  whose  horns 
rides  death,  the  rhinoceros,  the  dreaded  hunter  of  those  who  hunt  him, 
the  herd  of  wild  pigs  that  root  up  the  fruitful  plantation,  the  gliding 
snake  swollen  with  venom.  The  mountain  was  his  ally,  and  the  wind 
that  comes  from  the  mountain;  the  clouds  that  are  the  floating  springs 
and  rivers  of  the  air.  The  tall  grass  of  the  wilderness,  the  alang-alang, 
was  his  army ;  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  is  their  number,  whose 
banners,  streaming  white  on  the  wind,  become  new  thousands  upon 
thousands,  conquerors  of  all  empty  places.  Food  for  men  grows  there 


no  more. 


76  ISLAND-INDIA 

“How  could  the  people  of  the  mountains  strive  against  the  Forest 
King,  the  dread  prince  of  spirits  and  his  innumerable  hosts?  How 
could  they  escape  from  his  power  by  flight?  The  Tjikidool  who  was  his 
ally  watched  at  the  kraton  gate.  Impassable  was  the  stream.  From 
afar  too  he  deterred  those  who  would  approach  from  the  plain.  He  ter¬ 
rified  the  horseman  and  the  horse ;  the  heart  of  the  man  was  filled  with 
fear,  the  horse  reared  white-eyed.  He  terrified  the  cart  driver  and  the 
bullocks  before  the  cart.  In  vain  the  driver  muttered  incantations;  like 
the  stone  bull  which  stands  in  the  great  temple  of  Boro  Buddhur,  the 
bullocks  stood  motionless.  Of  good  things  none,  neither  help  nor  friend¬ 
ship  nor  joy,  did  the  inexorable  river  allow  to  come  to  the  people  of 
the  mountains.  But  for  evils  and  disaster  it  was  a  ready  road.  It  carried 
hunger  to  them.  It  carried  to  the  mountains  the  army  of  rats  when  they 
fled  from  pursuit  in  the  plain;  it  carried  to  them  who  owned  but  little 
the  devourers  of  all;  the  plague  it  carried  to  them,  and  death.” 

A  movement  had  passed  through  the  multitude  of  listeners  as  the 
poet-musician  began  to  sing  of  the  year  when  the  great  plague  of  rats 
came.  They  looked  away  from  him  to  where  amongst  the  throng  of 
dark  heads  a  few  glimmered  white.  The  very  oldest  only  knew  of  those 
far-off  days.  Would  they  not  speak?  For  although  no  one  will  ever  in¬ 
terrupt  the  dalang  when  he  lends  his  voice  to  the  gaudy  wayang  pup¬ 
pets  moving  before  the  white  screen  to  tell  of  the  high  exploits  and 
adventures  of  gods  and  godlike  heroes,  or  the  tookang  pantoon,  who, 
alone  in  the  dark  with  his  music,  chants  the  long  verses  of  a  fairy  tale, 
this  was  no  fairy  tale  nor  legend  of  strife  of  gods;  it  was  of  events  still 
within  the  memory  of  men  that  Si-Bagoos  thus  sang  to  the  melancholy 
music  of  the  gamelan.  And  it  seemed  as  if  Si-Bagoos,  too,  were  waiting 
for  an  answering  song  to  his  song  of  the  great  calamity,  for  when  the 
words  of  the  coming  of  the  year  of  horror  had  died  away  he  sat,  as  if 
expectant,  in  silence,  and  like  the  others  he  had  turned  his  face  to  where 
the  white  heads  glimmered  amongst  the  thickly  clustered  black  ones. 

As  in  the  wood  where  bats  hang  to  the  branches  in  their  day-sleep, 
large  and  heavy  and  motionless,  hardly  resembling  living  creatures, 
but  rather  like  some  misshapen  fruit  on  the  leafless  tree ;  as  in  the  wood 
of  the  bats  the  report  of  a  hunter’s  rifle  startles  all  these  sleepers,  so 
that  they  unfold  their  filmy  wings  and  sail  aloft  with  a  plaintive  cry, 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  77 

and  the  air  is  full  of  darkness  and  wailing,  there  where  but  now  all  was 
blue  sky  and  the  soft  rustling  of  leaves — so  at  the  singer’s  words  of  the 
year  of  distress,  the  memories  awoke  that  slept  in  ancient  hearts,  and 
from  those  who  had  sat  silent  they  rose  up  moaning. 

A  slow,  feeble  voice  began.  “I  it  was,  I,  who  saw  the  sign  of  the  dis¬ 
aster;  I  who  was  a  young  boy  then.  I  was  helping  my  father  at  fishing. 
In  the  evening  we  had  set  out  our  net  in  the  river;  I  went  forth  before 
dawn  to  draw  it  up.  Eh !  how  heavy  it  was  when  I  drew  it  up  on  to  the 
shore !  Such  a  catch,  I  thought,  we  never  had  yet !  I  shook  out  the  net 
on  the  grass.  O  children!  while  I  am  telling  of  it  I  feel  my  hair  stand 
on  end  as  it  did  then,  when  my  eyes  beheld  the  horrible  sight !  no  fish, 
no  fish,  but  a  hideous  heap  of  dead  rats !  Crushed  together  and  hanging 
on  to  one  another  by  teeth  and  claws,  they  stuck  fast  in  the  net,  most 
loathsome  to  see.  I  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  When  the  bathers  came 
to  the  river,  they  saw  the  devourers  in  the  net — hunger  caught  in  the 
stead  of  food.  Oh,  what  lamenting  then  arose!” 

A  second  plaintive  voice  began:  “I  had  a  rice-field  by  the  river;  I 
saw  it  wither.  Withered  were  all  the  fields  upon  the  slopes,  withered  the 
fields  around  the  village ;  sere  upon  the  ground  lay  the  stalks,  sere  the 
unripe  ears.  The  ground  moved  and  swarmed,  invisible  life  stirred  in  it, 
life  that  destroyed  life — life  that  was  death.” 

A  woman’s  voice  arose:  “Our  mothers  spoke  to  us:  ‘My  daughters! 
the  time  is  near  when  the  village  headman  sends  the  messengers  to  the 
households  with  glad  tidings,  summoning  them  to  come  up  for  the 
gathering  of  the  harvest ;  and  the  girls  carefully  arrange  their  smoothly 
folded  raiment,  and  place  a  flower  in  their  hair  next  to  the  wooden  har¬ 
vesting  knife  which  is  their  ornament  on  this  day,  thinking  of  the  young 
men  who  will  come  to  meet  them  in  the  field,  thinking  of  feasts  and 
betrothals  and  happy  weddings.  The  time  will  come,  but  not  the  mes¬ 
sage.  No  lovers  are  waiting  amongst  the  harvest.  The  rats  have  de¬ 
voured  your  wedding  feast,  my  daughters!’  ” 

And  a  second  spoke:  “My  husband  went  to  his  father,  begging  for 
the  loan  of  rice.  His  father  asked:  ‘How  shall  he  lend  who  is  in  want 
himself?’  I  went  to  my  mother’s  brother.  My  mother’s  brother  spake: 
‘We  have  sought  for  the  last  grains  in  the  dust  of  the  corners  of  the  rice 
barn;  we  have  scraped  the  floor.’  Then  my  husband  went  into  the  forest 
to  seek  for  roots.  Ah!  what  anxious  days,  how  many  anxious  days,  I 


78  ISLAND-INDIA 

waited  for  him !  My  little  child  wailed  in  my  lap ;  no  milk  was  in  my 
breasts  to  still  its  hunger.  It  wanted  to  drink ;  it  bit  the  nipple  so  that 
blood  came  instead  of  milk.  And  I  wept,  but  not  for  the  pain  in  my 
breasts ;  I  wept  for  my  child’s  hunger.  I  wept,  but  not  because  of  my 
loneliness — because  of  the  wandering  of  my  husband  in  the  forest  it 
was  I  wept.  Where,  I  thought,  is  he,  where  is  my  husband  now?  Per¬ 
haps  he  has  fallen  into  the  ravine,  and  no  one  hears  him  moaning. 
Perhaps  a  wild  boar  has  attacked  him,  or  the  bull  buffalo  that  keeps 
watch  over  his  herd  has  rushed  upon  him  as  he  entered  the  clearing  in 
the  forest.  Perhaps  the  tiger  has  carried  him  away,  the  mother  tigress 
that  carried  away  Djodjo,  dragging  him  out  of  a  circle  of  men  as  he 
was  sitting  in  his  own  house,  in  the  village  that  is  all  surrounded  by  the 
alang-alang.  I  was  as  a  corpse  with  fear  till  he  came  back.  Little  it  was 
he  brought  who  had  searched  so  long ;  but  little !  Ah !  my  little  child,  it 
died!”  She  ceased  on  a  sob.  Tears  stole  slowly  down  her  wrinkled 
cheeks. 

A  voice  that  was  as  a  sigh  rose  out  of  the  multitude  by  the  roadside. 
“Mother-of-Sidin!  how  many  a  mother  wept  then  even  as  thou  didst 
weep,  for  her  beloved  child !  Oh,  how  many  children  died  in  the  hill  vil¬ 
lages  then!  Their  little  bodies  were  so  thin,  their  little  faces  were  like 
the  faces  of  old  men.” 

A  dull  man’s  voice  spoke.  “First  the  little  children  died  and  the  old 
people,  those  who  had  but  little  strength  as  yet  and  those  who  had 
strength  no  more.  Then  the  men  and  the  women  died,  those  who  were 
full  of  strength.  The  mice  had  eaten  up  their  strength  as  it  stood  afield. 
As  the  mice  devoured  the  field,  so  hunger  devoured  the  men  and 
women,  eating  from  within  outward.  It  ate  their  bowels  and  their 
flesh,  it  ate  itself  out  through  their  skin.  They  were  nothing  but  hunger. 
And  then  came  the  sickness!” 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time  and  then  began  again:  “A  great  evil 
the  hunger  had  been !  a  greater  evil  was  the  sickness  that  came  after  it. 
Of  no  avail  was  the  art  of  the  dookoon;  all  the  lore  that  he  gathered 
out  of  magic  books  was  of  no  avail.  Did  we  not  do  in  all  things  as  he 
commanded?  We  offered  up  all  the  sacrifices,  even  those  that  were  the 
most  difficult  to  accomplish,  even  the  most  costly;  we  performed  all  the 
sacred  acts,  we  pronounced  all  the  incantations.  We  tied  bunches  of 
prickly  aloe  leaves  to  the  posts  of  the  village  gate  in  order  that  the  sick- 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 


79 


ness  should  fear  to  enter.  Every  evening  before  sundown  we  set  down 
a  bowl  of  yellow  rice  and  a  bowl  of  water  and  spoke  the  words  of  invi¬ 
tation,  that  the  sickness  might  eat  and  drink  and,  being  refreshed,  pass 
on,  well  disposed  toward  our  village,  sparing  us.  But  for  all  that,  it 
came  in!  All  the  houses  of  our  village  it  entered  and  slew  the  father  and 
the  mother  and  the  ancient  grandparents,  all  the  children,  the  grown 
up,  and  the  little  ones ;  only  a  few  remained  to  bury  the  dead.  Hastily 
they  buried  them;  they  did  not  wind  them  in  a  white  winding-sheet, 
they  did  not  recite  the  prayers  of  the  dead.  With  averted  faces,  fearing 
that  death  would  come  forth  from  the  dead,  they  threw  a  handful  of 
earth  upon  them.  In  the  night  the  hungry  dogs  came.  They  fought  by 
the  new-made  graves.  No  one  drove  them  away  from  the  thing  which 
they  tore  from  one  another  and  devoured.” 

The  old  and  faltering  voice  spoke  in  dread.  “Not  all  were  dead  that 
the  buriers  buried.  A  man  came  into  our  village,  lean  and  naked;  he 
staggered  in  his  walk,  swaying  as  a  glagah  stalk  sways  in  the  wind.  He 
made  gestures  to  beg  for  water,  and  drank,  lying  where  he  had  fallen 
down.  Not  for  many  hours  did  he  speak:  then  he  said  he  had  been 
buried,  seeming  dead.  And  he  showed  the  bleeding  bites  of  the  dogs  in 
his  flesh.” 

When  the  voice  ceased  it  was  very  still.  The  soft  rustling  made  by 
the  night  wind  in  the  dense  mass  of  the  hanging  banyan  foliage  became 
audible;  the  river  was  grinding  against  the  abutments  and  the  great 
pile  of  the  bridge.  A  cloud  that  had  long  obscured  the  moon  drifted 
away,  and  the  misty  light  suffused  the  sky  and  the  landscape ;  between 
dark  masses  of  driftwood  the  river  glimmered  uncertainly,  and  on  the 
steep  southern  slope  the  wood,  crowding  upward  in  billowy  masses, 
stood  in  a  dim  silvery  shimmer.  Under  that  transparent  surface  lustre 
impenetrable  darkness  lay  sunk  in  clefts  and  hollows,  a  cruel  mystery. 

But  the  gentle  thrumming  that  all  the  while  had  softly  continued 
grew  gradually  louder  and  clearer,  although  it  still  was  very  gentle. 
And  now  a  girl’s  voice  floated  out  upon  it,  and  another  followed ;  ten¬ 
der  and  timid  were  they  both. 

“The  mother  weeps  on  the  grave  of  her  beloved  child,  bringing  food 
offerings  on  the  days  consecrated  to  the  memory  of  the  dead ;  yet  she 
smiles  when  at  her  return  the  other  children  run  to  meet  her;  for  the 
sake  of  the  lost  one  she  loves  the  living  all  the  more  tenderly.  The  pen- 


80  ISLAND-INDIA 

sive  one  sighs,  remembering  the  woe  of  bygone  days;  yet  he  rejoices  in 
the  gladness  of  the  present  day ;  for  the  sake  of  what  is  lost  he  prizes 
what  is  gained  the  more  dearly.” 

The  soft  voices  of  consolation  sank  again  into  silence.  And  on  a 
lighter  melody  Si-Bagoos  raised  his  voice  anew,  celebrating  the  coming 
of  the  builder  of  roads  to  the  hill  country. 

“As  in  the  heavens  the  sun  rises  over  the  sea,  throwing  a  golden  road 
to  the  land,  golden  over  all  the  waves,  thus  in  the  plain  arose  the 
Builder  of  the  Bridge,  the  builder  of  many  roads,  the  man  strong  in  the 
strength  of  knowledge,  born  in  a  land  across  the  sea;  a  shining  road  he 
made  to  the  mountains,  shining  across  all  the  fields.  From  the  sea  unto 
the  Tjikidool  a  road  of  white  beams  shone  out  before  his  feet.  No  ter¬ 
ror  had  the  river  for  him !  As  the  heavenly  hero  looked  upon  the  giant, 
so  he  looked  upon  the  Tjikidool,  with  the  look  of  the  conqueror.” 

A  call  to  battle  rang  out  in  the  music  that  bore  this  song;  gallantly 
it  echoed  through  the  night.  Every  face  was  raised.  Sootan  Arab,  he  of 
the  storm-bird  countenance,  sat  breathing  deeply.  Presently  he  joined 
in  the  song,  humming,  with  a  sound  as  of  a  gong  that  is  covered  up  by  a 
subduing  hand.  Hadji  Moosa  looked  up  out  of  a  long  reverie.  There 
was  great  beauty  in  his  thin,  still  face  as  he  lifted  it  out  of  the  glow  of 
the  flames ;  a  tender  pride  lit  up  its  sadness  as  the  cheerful  gleam  of  the 
fire  lit  up  the  dead  leaves,  dry  and  brittle,  that  dully  strewed  the 
ground.  His  voice  trembled  with  the  joy  of  love  as  he  began  to  sing  the 
praises  of  his  friend. 

“As  the  rising  sun  is  full  of  comfort  and  the  dispenser  of  joy,  caus¬ 
ing  the  buds  to  bloom  on  bushes  chilled  by  the  dews  of  night,  causing 
hearts  to  rejoice  within  sad  ones,  dimmed  by  the  tears  of  the  night,  even 
thus  Our  Friend  was  a  comforter  and  generous  in  the  dispensing  of 
joy.  Being  strong  in  the  strength  of  knowledge,  he  gave  of  his  strength 
to  the  weak,  the  ignorant.  The  building  of  a  road  over  the  Tjikidool, 
the  impassable  stream,  a  road  for  the  people  of  the  mountains,  a  fixity 
well  to  be  trusted,  this  was  the  thing  in  his  heart;  no  other.  Not  the 
winning  of  honour,  nor  the  winning  of  power,  nor  the  winning  of  riches. 
No  overlord  would  he  be,  who  was  the  strongest  of  all,  but  a  helper  of 
the  weak.  Well  do  I  know — I,  whom  he  called  friend.  Difference  of 
white  skin  and  dark  skin,  difference  between  the  race  that  rules  and  the 
race  that  obeys,  were  as  nothing  to  him. 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 


81 


“When  he  saw  that  a  humble  man  took  thought  and  could  not  under¬ 
stand,  he  would  say:  ‘Come  to  me  in  my  own  house,  in  the  evening, 
when  the  work  of  the  day  is  done;  I  will  make  it  plain  to  thee.’  Where 
the  railway  runs  through  the  sugar-cane  fields  of  Kalimas,  there  stood 
his  dwelling.  Many  knew  the  way  thereto!  Sitting  in  the  darkness,  I 
looked  forth  toward  his  window;  the  light  shone  out;  I  knew,  now  my 
friend  is  waiting  for  me !  I  went  as  if  the  light  were  a  hand  that  held  my 
hand.  He  sat  in  the  midst  of  many  books.  On  the  walls  of  the  room 
were  maps ;  thereon  the  land  was  drawn  and  the  river,  not  as  they  are 
seen  by  the  eye,  but  according  to  their  true  shape,  which  is  discerned 
only  by  thought.  Of  what  nature  is  the  soil  of  the  plain  and  the  stone  of 
the  mountain,  of  what  nature  is  the  motion  and  the  strength  of  the 
water,  what  are  the  places  from  which  the  water  flows,  all  this  was  to  be 
seen  on  these  maps.  And  Our  Friend  explained  it  to  us  so  that  all  of  us 
understood,  and  understood  too  why  it  was  that  he  who  would  build  a 
bridge  over  the  Tjikidool  must  know  all  these  things.  For  even  then 
that  was  his  desire;  he,  Our  Friend,  wished  it  before  yet  any  one  else 
wished  it.  While  no  one  thought  of  us,  he  thought  of  us — he  of  the 
gentle  heart,  the  truly  kind  one ! 

“From  the  window  of  his  room,  that  was  to  the  south,  he  looked  upon 
the  river,  upon  the  place  where  the  ford  was  in  the  dry  season;  in  the 
time  of  change  how  often  the  people  sat  there  waiting!  waiting  all 
night  if  haply  the  river  would  have  fallen  so  far  in  the  morning  that, 
wading  in  up  to  the  lips,  a  man  might  venture  to  cross.  But  often  the 
river  fell  not — nay,  it  rose — and  fell  not  the  following  day  either,  and 
those  who  had  waited  long  in  vain  threw  down  their  burden  in  anger 
and  despair  and  returned  home,  poorer  than  when  they  started,  and 
their  feet  became  heavy  as  they  thought  of  their  children  who  would 
run  to  meet  them,  and  of  their  wife,  and  of  her  eyes  when  she  should 
look  at  the  shoulders  lacking  a  load  and  at  the  girdle  lacking  money. 
Ah !  how  many  watch-fires  burned  in  vain  by  the  river  in  those  days ! 
He  saw  them  when  he  looked  up  from  his  work.  He  well  knew  those 
fires  were  not  the  fires  of  a  man  from  Hootan  Roosa,  or  a  man  from 
Soombertingghi,  or  from  Bookit  Berdoori;  no,  all  the  people  of  the 
mountains  it  was,  that  sat  there  waiting  on  the  bank  of  the  impassable 
river.  For  a  long  while  he  would  gaze  in  silence.  The  fires  of  the  waiting 
ones  in  the  night,  they  burned  into  his  heart.” 


82 


ISLAND-INDIA 


The  voice  of  the  old  man  broke.  For  a  while  only  the  sound  of  the 
river  was  heard,  growing  ever  louder  as  the  current  scoured  with  ever 
increasing  violence  against  the  great  pile  of  the  bridge.  Some  one  threw 
an  armful  of  twigs  upon  the  fire ;  a  tall  flame  leapt  up,  illumining  a  cir¬ 
cle  of  grave  faces,  all  turned  toward  the  Hadji.  Out  of  the  semi-dark¬ 
ness  of  the  throng  by  the  roadside  Soomarti’s  eyes  shone;  they  were 
bent  on  Hadji  Moosa  as  the  eyes  of  a  starving  man  are  bent  on  food. 

The  friend  of  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge  began  anew :  “I  had  told  him 
I  was  a  man  from  the  mountains ;  he  asked  me  how  we  lived  there.  But 
seldom,  verily,  will  a  man  of  this  country  give  true  answer  to  a  Hol¬ 
lander  asking  him.  Will  not  the  humble  one  think  that  the  mighty  one 
asks  in  order  to  become  the  mightier  by  knowledge,  and  still  humbler 
and  poorer  will  he  himself  become  thereby?  Therefore  he  says  not  the 
things  that  are,  but  he  seeks  for  words  that  will  hide  the  truth  under  an 
appearance  pleasing  to  the  mighty  one.  But  him,  Our  Friend,  I  knew 
to  be  our  true  friend;  his  question  was  a  brother’s  question  asking  his 
brother  that  he  may  help  him.  As  a  brother’s  answer,  therefore,  was  my 
answer,  upright,  truthful.  I  showed  him  the  joy  of  our  life  and  the  sor¬ 
row.  We  spake,  he  and  I,  from  heart  to  heart. 

“Woe  is  me!  How  poor  am  I  become  who  was  so  rich  then!  Never 
more  shall  I  sit  with  my  friend,  the  truly  good,  the  kind  of  heart,  whose 
laugh  was  as  the  sunshine !  I  am  old.  He  is  far  from  here.  I  have  given 
up  waiting — I,  who  am  an  old  man.” 

His  white  head  sank  down ;  he  sat  all  drooping.  The  glow  had  left  his 
face;  it  was  dim  and  hollow  in  the  light  of  the  flames.  Tears  that  had 
been  slow  in  coming  and  that  were  now  no  longer  to  be  restrained, 
trickled  down  his  wrinkled  face. 

Si-Bagoos  turned  and  lightly  touched  the  gamelan  instrument;  it 
sounded  softly.  And  out  of  the  dusk  of  the  banyan  there  came  a  soft 
singing.  “When  the  fragrant  akar-wangi  plant  dies  its  root  is  still  fra¬ 
grant;  we  lay  it  among  silken  garments;  all  the  garments  grow  fra¬ 
grant.  When  days  of  joy  are  past,  the  remembrance  is  still  joy.  We 
treasure  it  in  our  thoughts;  all  our  thoughts  turn  to  thoughts  of  joy.” 
The  voice  that  sang  the  words  of  resignation  was  so  young,  never  from 
the  same  heart  could  the  voice  and  the  words  come;  but  it  sounded 
sweetly,  nevertheless. 


83 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

And  full  of  the  consolation  of  sweet  music  was  the  melody  which,  out 
of  Si-Bagoos’  fingers  that  had  so  lightly  touched  the  bronze,  the  game- 
lan  player  now  took  over  and  continued  to  a  gliding,  tripping  rhythm. 
Hadji  Moosa  had  raised  his  head  again;  he  sat  still,  looking  into  the 
flames  as  if  he  were  gazing  at  a  fair  vision.  The  flame  was  before  him  as 
a  purple  veil  lightly  wafted  aside  from  the  entrance  of  a  temple ;  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  innermost  shrine  the  self-forgetting  gaze  loses  it¬ 
self.  He  saw  not  how  many  eyes  were  bent  upon  him — neither  Soomar- 
ti’s  face  nor  Rookmini’s,  as  she  gazed  at  him  from  under  the  banyan. 

“One  thing  was  in  the  heart  of  Our  Friend,  one  single  thing.  Even 
as  the  flame  of  this  watch-fire  outshines  the  torches  of  the  watchers, 
even  as  it  consumes  the  wood  thrown  upon  it,  the  green  with  the  dry ;  so 
this  one  desire  outshone  all  other  desires,  so  this  one  thought  consumed 
every  other  thought  in  his  heart :  to  build  roads  through  the  wilderness, 
that  neither  jungle  nor  mountain  nor  deep  ravine  nor  river  in  bandjir 
should  any  longer  part  men  from  men,  that  there  should  be  no  more 
loneliness  and  desolation  anywhere,  but  everywhere  community  and 
brotherhood.  He  showed  us  of  what  nature  is  the  work  of  building 
bridges ;  how  noble  a  work !  And  it  has  been  honoured  as  noble  by  the 
wise  from  the  farthest  times. 

“This  it  was  that  Our  Friend  told  us;  I  repeat  his  words,  of  which  I 
have  not  forgotten  one : 

“In  the  times  as  far  off  as  the  times  when  the  Prince  of  the  Wise 
lived,  King  Solomon,  the  lands  across  the  sea,  where  now  the  great 
cities  are  and  the  palaces  of  mighty  rulers,  were  wilderness  and  forest 
and  marsh.  And  men  lived  there  as  in  the  wilderness  of  this  our  own 
land  men  live,  and  even  more  unhappily  still,  because  over  there  but 
little  fruitfulness  is  in  the  earth  and  but  little  sunshine  in  the  sky.  The 
world  is  poor  there!  There  are  many  dark  months  in  the  year  there, 
when  all  plants  die ;  and  in  those  ancient  times  many  men  and  women 
also  died ;  of  cold  they  died,  and  of  hunger,  and  in  the  struggle  with 
strong  and  cruel  wild  beasts. 

“One  people,  however,  there  was,  which  lived  in  a  different  way. 
Earlier  than  all  the  others  this  people  had  gained  knowledge  concern¬ 
ing  the  earth  and  trees  and  plants  and  beasts,  so  that  it  ploughed  and 
sowed  and  won  plenteous  fruit,  and  dwelt  in  well-built  houses  and  wore 


84 


ISLAND-INDIA 


garments  cool  in  the  sunny  months  and  warm  in  the  dark  time.  This 
people  did  not  wander,  nor  did  it  stray  in  the  wilderness,  but  it  built 
cities  to  dwell  in,  and  from  city  to  city  there  ran  a  straight  road,  and 
over  every  broad  river  there  was  a  bridge,  so  that  each  town  received 
what  it  needed  from  other  towns  that  had  it ;  and  not  only  was  it  market 
ware  that  they  carried  and  exchanged,  passing  along  their  roads  and 
over  the  great  bridges  that  made  a  road  where  first  a  swirling  river  had 
been — nay,  but  knowledge  also.  Thus  ever  greater  became  their  knowl¬ 
edge  ;  and  they,  being  grown  strong  by  knowledge,  became  the  mighti¬ 
est  in  the  world,  and  rulers  over  all  other  peoples.  In  the  conquered 
lands,  where  men  still  lived  as  the  beasts  live,  they  then  did  as  they  had 
done  in  their  own  land :  they  built  roads  and  bridges,  that  are  standing 
to  this  day,  at  this  hour  while  we  are  speaking  of  them.  The  armies  of 
this  mighty  people  which  held  all  the  other  peoples  in  bondage  passed 
over  the  roads  and  bridges;  but  with  them  went  knowledge.  The 
armies  could  not  prevent  that!  Those  who  were  strong  by  knowledge 
could  not  hinder  the  weak,  who  were  weak  through  want  of  knowledge, 
from  gaining  the  knowledge  that  they  themselves  had  brought  with 
them  over  their  roads  and  great  bridges.  The  weak  ones  grew  strong  by 
it !  They  grew  so  strong  that  they  drove  out  the  alien  rulers,  and  again 
became  masters  of  their  own  land.  Now  they  lived  once  more  according 
to  their  own  will.  But  this  was  no  longer  as  it  had  been  before  the 
strangers  came,  the  builders  of  bridges,  for  knowledge  had  wrought  a 
change  in  them.  After  a  long  time  they  themselves  became  conquerors 
of  peoples  and  lands,  and  in  the  conquered  lands  they  built  roads  and 
bridges,  over  which  their  mighty  armies  passed  to  keep  those  peoples  in 
bondage.  But  again  with  them  went  knowledge!  Knowledge  went  over 
roads  and  bridges  to  peoples  where  as  yet  no  knowledge  was.  Where 
formerly  the  forest  had  been  their  lord,  and  the  strong  beasts,  the  tiger, 
the  wild  buffalo,  and  the  rhinoceros,  the  herds  of  wild  swine,  where  the 
alang-alang  had  been  their  lord  and  the  impassable  river,  there  came 
knowledge,  by  which  man  himself  grows  to  be  the  lord ! 

“And  now  in  all  those  lands  men  are  changing.  They  wish  no  longer 
to  live  as  their  forefathers  lived,  in  dread  of  the  many  things  stronger 
than  man,  for  now  they  themselves  are  becoming  the  strongest!  How 
it  is  they  wish  to  live — that  they  do  not  as  yet  well  know.  The  conquer¬ 
ors,  who  built  the  ways  for  knowledge,  do  not  live  happily  in  their  own 


85 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

lands.  These  people  will  not  live  as  the  conquerors  live.  How  then? 
How  then?  They  will  know  when  they  shall  have  gained  yet  more 
knowledge;  when  yet  more  men  can  come  together,  each  giving  the 
knowledge  that  he  has  gained  in  exchange  for  other  knowledge  that 
others  have  gained.  Therefore  they  must  make  roads  through  the  wil¬ 
derness  ;  that  men  may  come  to  men,  therefore  they  must  build  a  bridge 
over  the  impassable  river,  that  knowledge  may  pass  over  it,  and  men  at 
last  learn  how  they  may  live  in  true  happiness,  all  together  as  brothers 
live.” 

An  exultant  note  had  come  into  the  old  Hadji’s  voice,  his  face 
shone,  it  was  young  with  joy  and  hope.  And  from  all  sides  other  faces 
shone  toward  his,  most  of  these  very  young,  half  shy  as  yet,  with  a 
smile  that  was  only  in  the  eyes,  a  light  as  yet  but  dubiously  dawning.  It 
had  grown  very  still,  with  a  stillness  that  was  not  disturbed  by  the 
sound  of  the  rushing  river.  The  hill  forest  showed  misty  in  the  pale 
moonbeams ;  the  clouds,  downily  grey,  lay  like  brooding  wings  soft  and 
motionless  on  the  air ;  the  sprouting  of  all  the  new  life  which  the  rain 
had  begotten  could  be  felt  as  a  hidden  sweetness  in  the  breathing 
warmth. 

The  dalang,  who  had  taken  the  swathed  hammers  out  of  the  game- 
lan  player’s  hands,  gently  touched  the  bronze.  And  a  melody  began 
such  as  no  one  had  ever  heard  as  yet.  The  listeners  thought,  wondering : 
“What  is  this  melody  that  Si-Bagoos  is  playing?  How  beautiful! 
How  most  beautiful!”  A  strong,  calm  rhythm  was  in  the  music,  as  of  a 
great  multitude  marching  together  in  happy  concord.  Many  voices 
were  in  it  of  men  and  women — voices  as  of  such  as  are  seeking  and  call¬ 
ing,  and  voices  as  of  such  as  have  found  and  answer;  a  singing  of 
youths  and  maidens,  frolicsome  between  children’s  play  and  men’s 
work;  the  laughter  of  many  little  ones  and  the  call  of  watchful  mothers. 
But  words  there  were  none  to  this  music. 

Soomarti,  who  out  of  the  darkness  had  come  ever  closer  to  the  music 
and  the  light  of  the  fire,  murmured,  speaking  to  himself :  “How  then 
must  we  live?  How  then?”  He  did  not  think  that  any  one  heard;  the 
words  rose  to  his  lips  of  their  own  will.  But  the  dalang  understood,  and 
looked  at  him  across  the  music,  and  shook  his  head  gravely.  Every  one 
who  saw  discerned  his  meaning:  “The  words  that  say  this,  the  words 
for  this  music,  are  not  as  yet.” 


86 


ISLAND-INDIA 


The  elders  sat  pensive,  but  the  young  had  shining  faces;  they  were 
all  a-throb,  as,  in  the  foliage  overhead,  the  young  birds  which  the  dawn¬ 
like  light  of  the  watch-fire  had  waked.  They  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  nest 
looking  into  the  glow,  the  tiny  creatures ;  they  were  full  of  light,  and 
their  short  downy  wings  were  set  quivering  with  a  desire  to  fly;  even 
thus,  stirred  with  a  great  longing,  these  boys  and  girls  sat  tremulous. 
From  where  she  was  seated  amongst  the  women,  whispering  in  the  pro¬ 
tective  darkness  of  the  banyan,  Rookmini  watched  them,  smiling, 
happy. 

Then  the  music  ceased  its  song,  and  became  low  and  subdued,  wait¬ 
ing  for  a  voice  which  it  might  carry ;  Hadji  Moosa  began  again : 

“Many  are  the  rhymes  sung  of  the  bridge,  many  and  beautiful!  But 
one  rhyme  has  not  yet  sounded.  Ah!  Would  it  were  made  to-night! 
Would  that  pantoon-singers  in  couplets  of  rhymes  that  answer  one 
another  sang  the  song  of  the  Beginning  of  the  Bridge !  Listen,  grand¬ 
children!  Hear  what  the  beginning  was! 

“The  command  came  from  the  Great  Lord  in  Buitenzorg:  Let  a 
bridge  be  built  over  the  Tjikidool!  And  the  Radhen  Regents  and  the 
Wedanas  and  the  Headmen  and  all  those  who  are  in  authority  gave 
orders  to  the  people,  saying:  ‘Go  ye  and  build!’  But  this  was  not  the 
beginning  of  the  Bridge. 

“Wise  men  examined  the  nature  of  the  river;  they  made  an  image 
of  it,  a  true  likeness.  Travelling  through  the  mountain  districts,  they 
investigated  and  enquired  of  many  men,  they  discovered  the  sources, 
they  measured  the  rain,  they  tried  the  soil ;  but  this  was  not  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  Bridge,  not  this  either. 

“Our  Friend  saw  how  we  lived.  He  saw  the  fires  of  the  watchers  in 
the  night.  His  heart  grew  hot  within  him  because  of  our  need.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  the  Bridge!” 

For  a  time  there  was  silence  after  he  had  finished  speaking.  Then 
there  came  a  voice  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  banyan — not  the  young 
light  one  that  had  sung  first ;  much  fuller  this  one  sounded,  and  at  the 
same  time  softer.  It  sang  words  new-found,  words  just  unfolding,  like 
the  sedap-malem  flower,  that  unfolds  in  the  night.  The  subdued 
melody  which  the  musician  played  well  suited  the  grave  and  gentle 
voice. 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  87 

“In  secret  is  the  beginning  of  the  rice  plant,  in  the  dark  grain,  secret. 
In  secret  is  the  beginning  of  the  bird,  within  the  dark  egg,  secret.” 

And,  answering,  a  voice  came  out  of  the  darkling  multitude  by  the 
roadside;  a  youth’s  ringing  voice  it  was:  “In  secret  is  the  beginning  of 
man,  within  the  dark  mother,  secret.  In  secret  is  the  beginning  of  the 
deed,  within  the  dark  heart,  secret.” 

The  scale  of  sounds  ascended  in  well-defined  intervals,  harmoni¬ 
ously:  first  Hadji  Moosa’s  deep  voice;  then  Rookmini’s  softly  clear 
voice;  then  the  youth’s  ringing  voice.  It  had  to  come,  that  voice;  it 
could  not  but  come!  The  listeners  were  well  pleased  to  hear  that  last 
high  note. 

But  yet  when  they  saw  who  it  was  that  sang,  they  said,  in  some  sur¬ 
prise:  “Eh!  it  is  Soomarti!  It  is  Moodjaddi  from  Kebonan  Baroo  who 
sings  in  answer  to  Rookmini!  Bold  is  he  indeed  that  he  should  dare  to 
speak — a  boy  amongst  so  many  older  persons!” 

A  sound  of  voices  approached,  and  the  light  of  torches.  The  watchers 
whose  turn  was  over  sat  down  again  by  the  fire.  They  said  that  the  river 
still  rose  and  a  great  deal  of  wood  still  came  floating  down,  but  it  was 
only  shrubs  and  saplings,  slight-rooted  growth,  of  small  hold  upon  the 
soil — no  longer  tall  trees  such  as  there  came  last  year;  nothing  that 
threatened  danger  to  the  bridge. 

The  watchers  whose  turn  now  began  rose  to  go  to  the  river  banks 
and  to  the  middle  of  the  bridge.  And  a  tall  man,  to  whom  one  of  those 
returned  from  the  river  had  handed  his  torch,  turned  in  going  and 
stood  for  a  moment,  shining,  as  he  said  that  verily  the  day  was  a  day 
of  good  luck,  upon  which  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge  had  begun  the 
planting  of  a  wood  on  Goonoong  Hitam.  A  good  defence  it  proved 
from  the  violence  of  the  rain  upon  the  slopes !  No  more  rice-fields  would 
be  destroyed  of  the  many  that  had  been  planted  since  at  the  foot,  and 
no  more  houses  would  be  washed  down  the  slopes  as  had  happened  so 
often  before.  He  went :  the  flame  and  the  smoke  of  his  torch  were  as  a 
banner  over  his  head. 


The  gamelan  music  began  again;  merry  was  the  melody.  It  sounded 
like  an  answer,  a  joyous  “ay,”  a  calm  glad  assurance  concerning  many 
happy  things. 


88  ISLAND-INDIA 

Sootan  Arab  raised  his  kindling  eagle-face;  that  sonorous  voice  of 
his,  that  was  like  a  call  from  a  Triton  horn,  broke  through  the  soft 
music. 

“A  captain  for  courageous  men  was  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge,  a 
leader  whom  it  was  good  to  follow!  My  comrades  and  I,  men  of  the 
south  coast,  who  never  follow  any  man,  we  followed  him,  and  never 
rued  it.  He  was  like  to  no  other,  Hollander  or  Malay. 

“When  we  came  back  from  our  last  expedition,  then  it  was  that  we 
heard  of  him.  Brothers,  what  a  loss  it  was,  that  last  journey  to  Timor 
for  horses! — too  unbearable  altogether  a  loss.  Four  of  the  horses  fell 
overboard  in  the  fight  with  the  Arab  horse-dealer  and  his  men.  And 
we  were  hardly  under  sail  with  the  others,  when  we  saw  the  smoke  of  a 
revenue  cutter.  Even  if  the  wind  is  favourable,  how  shall  a  man  escape 
with  sails  and  oars  from  a  fire-ship?  I  said:  ‘Brothers,  better  to  be  safe 
with  a  few  horses  than  to  be  caught  with  many!’  Six  horses  we  took  into 
our  prao;  the  prao  of  the  Arab,  with  the  others,  we  cast  adrift.  We  also 
thought,  perhaps  the  Hollanders  will  pursue  the  horse  prao,  and  while 
they  are  busy  with  the  horses  we  shall  escape.  There  was  a  favourable 
wind,  we  rowed  with  all  our  might,  we  were  close  to  the  cliffs.  Brothers, 
a  little  only,  a  little  was  wanting,  and  we  should  be  safe.  Then  the  rev¬ 
enue  cutter  overtook  us!  How  shall  a  man  escape  from  a  fire-ship  if  he 
have  only  oars  and  a  sail  ? 

“A  bullet  struck  the  water  in  front  of  our  prao.  We  leapt  overboard. 
They  did  not  find  us  on  the  islands,  however  long  they  searched.  We 
had  reached  the  mainland,  when  we  still  saw  their  steam-launch  darting 
hither  and  thither  amongst  the  reefs. 

“And  we  saw  our  horses  on  the  cutter’s  deck,  all  of  them!  All!  Both 
those  we  had  left  in  the  Arab’s  prao  and  those  that  we  had  kept  with  us 
to  the  last — all  the  twenty  of  them!  Ah!  the  loss,  the  all  too  unbearable 
loss !  All  in  vain,  all  the  trouble  and  the  fighting  and  the  rowing;  all  for 
nothing!  A  fool  was  the  dookoon  who  offered  up  the  sacrifice  before 
we  sailed.  We  said  to  one  another:  ‘Is  this  a  life  worth  living,  brothers? 
Better  were  it  verily  to  be  a  coolie,  a  man  who  works  with  his  hands, 
and  does  as  he  is  bidden,  a  slave!’  We  heard  of  the  building  of  the 
bridge,  we  saw  the  village  of  the  coolies  by  the  river,  a  big  village,  a 
very  big  village !  The  smoke  of  the  noon  fires  was  as  a  cloud  in  the  sun¬ 
shine.  We  had  seen  it  at  first  on  the  skirt  of  the  plain,  not  far  from  the 


The  Isle  of  Pirates 


■ 


' 

. 


• 

89 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

trading  city  on  the  coast.  Then  we  had  seen  it  in  the  midst  of  the  plain, 
amongst  the  cane-fields  and  the  sugar-mills.  Now  we  saw  it  by  the 
river:  a  travelling  village,  a  village  like  a  bullock-cart  that  goes  where 
the  driver  drives  it!  And  the  iron  road  shone  behind  it;  the  fire  cars 
were  riding  along  it.  We  entered  the  village;  it  was  full  of  food!  No 
one  gave  us  any.  The  people  said:  ‘Work!  We  also  work.’  We  were 
terribly  hungry;  we  thought,  ‘It  is  even  so!’  We  said,  ‘We  will 
work!’  The  mandoor  accepted  us,  for  some  of  the  workmen,  wood¬ 
cutters,  had  just  run  away,  so  that  they  were  in  need  of  men.  The 
Builder  of  the  Bridge  came  and  looked  at  us;  he  said,  ‘It  is  well!’ 
And  we  looked  at  him,  and  to  one  another  we  also  said,  ‘It  is  well!’ 
He  was  a  captain  for  men  like  us ;  that  we  knew,  seeing  him.  Koowat 
and  Si-Badil  and  I,  we  went  into  the  hills  to  fell  wood.  That  was 
work  for  men.  The  others  had  run  away  out  of  fear.  They  were 
afraid  of  the  people  of  Bookit  Berdoori,  who  had  hit  the  mandoor 
over  the  head  with  a  hatchet,  after  they  had  long  been  lying  in  wait 
for  him.” 

From  the  multitude  by  the  roadside  there  came  a  feeble  hoarse 
voice,  like  the  crackling  of  dry  leaves  that  break  under  foot. 

“Builders  of  bridges  have  need  of  a  human  head  to  lay  under  the 
masonry,  so  as  to  make  the  bridge  strong  to  withstand  the  river  and 
strong  to  bear  burdens.  The  enmity  against  the  mandoor  of  the  wood¬ 
cutters  was  because  of  this.  Mothers  dared  not  let  their  child  outside  the 
village  gate ;  nay,  they  would  not  let  it  out  of  their  sight,  as  long  as  the 
builders  of  the  bridge  were  in  the  hills. 

“And  because  of  the  sacred  tree  was  the  enmity;  because  of  the 
Rasamala  on  the  burial  ground  of  Hootan  Roosah.  The  wood-cutters, 
men  without  shame,  men  from  another  district,  had  felled  trees  there. 
No  one  from  our  district  would  have  damaged  the  forest  of  the  Rasa¬ 
mala.  Every  grown  man — ay,  every  child — knew  what  great  misfor¬ 
tune  that  would  bring  on  the  people.  And  even  they  who  were  strangers 
might  have  known.  Easy  it  was  to  see  that  the  Rasamala  was  not  a  tree 
as  other  trees  are — that  it  was  the  abode  of  a  spirit.  A  mountain  on  the 
top  of  a  mountain  it  stood;  it  was  as  a  forest  in  the  midst  of  the  forest. 
Its  base  was  as  a  rock.  Five  men  holding  each  other  by  the  hand  could 
not  encompass  the  trunk.  The  first  bough  was  a  hundred  feet  above  the 
ground,  and  the  crown  a  hundred  feet  above  the  first  bough.  The  sea- 


90 


ISLAND-INDIA 


eagle  that  came  flying  from  the  south  coast  alighted  upon  it;  thence 
he  surveyed  all  the  land  down  to  where  the  surf  is  white  upon  the  north¬ 
ern  beach.  Even  the  men  of  the  south  coast,  who  gather  swallows’ 
nests  from  the  steep  of  the  rocks,  durst  not  have  climbed  into  the  Rasa- 
mala  for  the  bees’  nests  hanging  in  it.  They  well  knew  that  death  would 
have  seized  them  before  they  could  seize  the  honey!” 

A  second  voice  fell  in,  which  also  had  the  woodland  ring.  “It  is  said 
in  Goonoong  Hitam  that  there  was  a  big  village  there  once,  before  the 
Year  of  the  Rats.  Kasiman  from  Goonoong  Hitam  came  to  the  wood 
of  the  Rasamala  once,  having  lost  his  way.  It  was  just  after  the  great 
bandjir  and  the  landslip  which  had  filled  up  the  ravine  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  Great  clefts  were  in  the  slopes ;  many  trees  lay  uprooted  in  the 
wood  of  the  Rasamala.  And  in  a  cleft  between  the  torn-up  roots  Kasi¬ 
man  saw  something  white.  He  thought,  ‘Whatever  may  that  white 
thing  be,  that  white  thing  down  there  in  the  black  earth?’  He  went, 
treading  cautiously,  to  the  edge  of  the  chasm.  Then  he  saw  skeletons — 
many  skeletons,  as  in  the  burial  ground  of  a  big  village.  Some  lay 
prone  with  knees  drawn  up,  and  some  on  the  side,  all  twisted.  The 
roots  of  the  trees  had  grown  through  them;  a  black  wicker-work 
twisted  among  the  white  ribs.  Then  Kasiman  knew  that  it  was  here  that 
so  many  burials  had  been  in  the  year  of  the  great  sickness,  and  those 
who  had  been  buried  alive  had  not  been  able  to  escape,  being  very  weak 
and  struggling  against  earth  too  heavy  upon  them.” 

The  hoarse  feeble  voice  began  again:  “A  forest  of  spirits  was  the 
wood  of  the  Rasamala.  Misfortune  must  come  of  it,  if  trees  were  felled 
there — great  misfortune  to  all  the  hill  country!”  The  anxious  tones 
ended  in  a  cry  like  the  croak  of  the  raven. 

And  suddenly  there  was  an  echo  on  all  sides.  The  night  was  pierced 
with  the  outcry  of  angry  frightened  voices,  sharp  as  the  sharp  grass  of 
the  wilderness,  that  wounds  the  wanderer’s  breast  and  face  and  up¬ 
raised  hands  and  pierces  the  soles  of  his  feet  with  its  splintery  broken 
stalks.  Names  of  evil  spirits  were  muttered.  An  angry  voice  cried:  “A 
great  misfortune  came  to  the  bridge  because  of  this!  The  fever  came  of 
which  so  many  died,  and  the  cracks  in  the  masonry  of  the  sunk  shafts, 
and  the  washing  away  of  the  foundations  after  the  auxiliary  bridge  was 
put  up.  Eh!  and  did  not  the  Rasamala  himself  come  in  the  bandjir, 
driving  against  the  bridge?” 


91 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

A  woman’s  voice  screamed  shrilly:  “The  women  of  Goonoong 
Hit  am  did  well  to  guard  their  children  from  the  mandoor  of  the  bridge- 
builders,  a  lurker  in  hidden  places,  a  man-hunter !  But  the  spirits  took 
for  themselves  the  sacrifice  which  the  builders  would  not  offer  up  to 
them!  When  the  men  blew  up  the  rock  for  the  foundation  of  the  bridge 
on  the  southern  bank,  a  fragment  of  rock,  flying  through  the  air,  tore 
off  the  mandoor’s  head.  Then  only  did  the  building  of  the  bridge  pros¬ 
per.” 

All  around,  the  people  in  the  dark  muttered.  The  tenderness  and  the 
joy  and  the  strength  that  a  moment  ago  had  found  happy  utterance 
were  no  more;  all  was  confusion  and  fear  and  hate.  As  on  the  ever  ris¬ 
ing  river  the  uprooted  and  torn  growth  of  the  mountains,  so  upon  a 
suddenly  released  and  ever  rising  flood  of  dim  feeling  there  floated 
strange  tangles  of  thought  come  from  afar,  shapeless,  horrible.  The 
ancestral  terror  of  the  forest,  the  black  solitude,  gripped  anew  those 
but  newly  escaped  from  it,  who  within  its  awful  shadow  crouched  tim¬ 
orously  around  the  scanty  brightness  of  the  watch-fire,  an  uncertain 
glimmer,  humble  and  small  at  the  foot  of  the  heaven-hiding  hill  of 
darkness,  the  formidable  river  rushing  by.  Wretchedly  insignificant, 
that  small  knot  of  human  beings  cowered,  their  limbs  so  frail,  their 
bodies  half  naked,  their  eyes  but  faintly  alight  with  the  dawning  gleam 
of  the  latest  and  as  yet  least  of  all  the  energies  of  nature — conscious 
thought,  the  examiner  of  the  seen  and  the  unseen.  Was  it  not  abject 
fear,  rather  than  the  flickering  of  the  flames,  that  twisted  their  faces  so 
strangely,  and  put  sudden  gleams  into  the  whites  of  their  eyes  ?  Mum¬ 
bling  mouths  opened  darkly  and  showed  broken  and  blackened  teeth ; 
an  ancient  fear  it  was  that  had  broken  and  blackened  them,  fear  of  the 
dead,  the  spirits,  the  disembodied,  who  grudge  the  living  that  one  joy 
in  the  world,  the  warm  life  of  the  body,  and  who  lie  in  wait  to  destroy 
it,  and  must  be  exorcised  and  appeased  by  incantations  and  by  the 
sacrifice  of  a  small  part  of  that  envied  body,  and  must  be  deceived  by 
rendering  invisible  what  of  the  sacrifice  remains  to  the  sacrificer.  And 
out  of  the  dark  mutilated  mouths  came  dark  words,  expressions  of 
mutilated  thoughts,  of  fear,  envy,  distrust,  cruelty,  hate.  The  ancient 
monsters  of  the  forest  hideously  haunted  the  spot.  They  still  bore  the 
ancient  names  which  had  called  them  into  separate  existence  out  of 
shapelessness,  marking  them  for  beings  supple  and  grinning  as  apes, 


92 


ISLAND-INDIA 


with  chill  clutching  fingers;  or  beings  with  eyes  fierily  green  like  the 
crouching  tiger’s  eyes,  and  jaws  horribly  fanged  and  dripping  with 
blood;  or  beings  like  scaly  snakes,  swift,  subtle,  and  poisonous,  from 
whose  coiling  embrace  there  is  no  escape. 

From  the  dim  hill  forest  an  owlet’s  subdued  chuckle  sounded.  A 
quivering  voice  cried  that  it  was  the  Pontianak,  the  laughing  one  with 
long  tresses,  whose  embrace  is  death.  And  then  the  women  began  to 
wail  in  fear  of  the  loathly  monster,  terror  of  mothers,  the  floating  hu¬ 
man  head  with  dripping  bowels  for  locks,  that  comes  to  devour  the 
new-born  babe.  And  some  one  whispered  of  Njai  Loro  Kidool,  who 
dwells  on  the  steep  south  coast  in  a  palace  built  of  human  skulls,  and 
whose  power  extends  from  one  sea  to  the  other. 

None  gave  ear  to  Hadji  Moosa’s  exhortations  and  rebukes.  And 
some  one  cried  jeeringly  through  the  ever  increasing  terror  of  the  mut¬ 
tering  and  murmuring  multitude,  that  if  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge  did 
not  fear  the  spirits,  it  was  because  he  possessed  a  magic  dagger,  a 
weapon  that  insured  victory  without  strife;  stronger  than  the  King  of 
Forest  Spirits  himself  was  the  incantation  that  had  been  pronounced 
over  it  and  the  virtue  of  the  pamor  ornamentation  on  the  blade. 

Out  of  the  darkness  under  the  banyan  the  soft  deep  voice  of  Rook- 
mini  came,  beseeching.  “Brothers!  Brothers!”  As  a  dove  breaks 
through  thorny  bushes  it  broke  through  the  mutterings  of  fear  and 
hate.  “Brothers!  Did  not  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge  teach  us  how  to 
overcome  the  evils  that  threaten  us?  Does  not  the  bridge  stand  firm? 
Is  it  not,  to  this  very  day,  a  way  for  happiness,  whilst  the  river  in  the 
days  before  the  Bridge  was  a  way  for  misfortune  only?  Ah!  wherefore 
will  ye  speak  of  the  evil  ones?  Harm  enough,  verily,  has  the  fear  of 
them  wrought  us !  They  have  no  more  power  over  us  who  are  escaped 
from  the  forest,  who  have  a  way  across  the  river,  who  live  amongst  the 
many.  Over  those  who  dwell  together  in  brotherhood,  well  we  know  the 
Spirits  of  the  Forest  no  longer  have  power.” 

That  word  of  happiness,  “brothers,”  had  exorcised  fear  and  anger. 
Frowning  brows  grew  smooth.  But  a  new  disturbance  broke  out.  A 
man  from  the  plain  cried  scornfully:  “It  was  not  the  anger  of  the 
Spirits  of  the  Rasamala  Forest  that  caused  the  cracking  of  the  ma¬ 
sonry  of  the  sunk  shaft !  What  caused  it  was  the  deceit  of  the  mandoor 
of  the  cement  workers !  Instead  of  cement,  he  had  sand  thrown  into  the 


93 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

mixing  trough.  His  belt  grew  heavy  with  the  Chinaman’s  silver  coins, 
but  the  masonry  cracked!”  Derisive  laughter  arose. 

Another  voice  from  the  plain  cried:  “Mighty  are  the  Spirits  of  the 
F orest,  who  in  their  wrath  wrecked  the  dam  of  the  pile  island,  so  that 
the  river  washed  away  the  piles.  But  go  and  ask  those  who  drove  in  the 
piles!  No  one  from  the  hill  villages  ever  guessed  that  they  only  drove 
them  in  lightly  and  sawed  off  the  tops,  that  it  might  seem  as  if  the  piles 
had  been  driven  in  up  to  the  head!” 

And  the  loud  laughter  grew  louder,  while  a  man  from  the  hills  threw 
an  angry  word  at  the  scoffer,  and  a  man  from  the  coast  felt  for  his 
dagger.  On  every  side  angry  voices  sprang  up  and  met  clashing — 
voices  from  the  hills,  voices  from  the  plain,  voices  from  the  coast,  voices 
from  the  island,  fighting  over  again  the  ancient  endless  fight  between 
the  folk  of  the  coast  and  the  folk  of  the  inland.  For  the  men  of  the 
coast,  seafarers,  traders,  pirates,  a  bold  breed  that  scours  the  roads  of 
the  sea  and  ever  finds  new  things,  holds  in  utter  contempt  the  inland 
people,  peaceable  tillers  of  the  soil,  rooted  in  their  own  ground  like  the 
growth  of  their  fields,  and  in  all  things  averse  to  change.  The  bold  men 
despise  the  gentle  ones  for  their  gentleness.  And  they  who  dare  not  re¬ 
venge  the  insult  rancorously  resent  the  taunt  that  coast-men  delight  in : 
“Hill  people,  men  like  wild  buffaloes,  clumsy  and  stupid!” 

The  hill  people  began  to  boast  of  the  work  that  their  men  had  done 
for  the  bridge,  the  men  of  the  coast  praised  theirs;  they  all  shouted  to¬ 
gether,  the  wood-cutters,  the  chalk-burners,  the  stone-hewers  from  the 
hills,  the  workers  in  the  red  clay  by  the  river  who  had  baked  the  bricks 
for  the  masonry,  and  those  who  had  sawed  and  grooved  and  shaped  the 
planks  for  the  dam  within  which  the  pile  island  was  built,  and  those 
who  had  dredged  the  sand  out  of  the  river  bed,  and  poured  it  inside  the 
dam,  so  as  to  make  firm  ground  for  the  sunk  shaft  that  was  to  bear  the 
central  pile.  They  shouted  each  at  the  others  and  outshouted  one  an¬ 
other,  men  from  the  hills  and  men  from  the  coast,  from  the  north  coast 
and  from  the  south  coast.  The  boasting  ran  to  scorn  and  abuse;  it  was 
a  tangle  of  cries,  as  angry  as  the  tearing  and  rushing  of  the  river  under 
the  bridge;  and  Hadji  Moosa  raised  his  hands  in  vain,  while  the  game- 
lan  player  made  his  bronze  gongs  resound  louder  and  louder,  that 
music  might  drown  the  discordant  clamour. 

It  seemed  impossible,  at  first.  And  Sootan  Arab  sprang  up,  and 


94  ISLAND-INDIA 

would  have  commanded  silence,  his  eyes  threatening,  his  hand  on  his 
dagger.  But  the  music  grew  louder  and  fuller  and  sweeter  yet,  whilst 
the  deeply  resonant  drum  boomed  through  it,  a  commanding  rhythm 
from  which  there  was  no  escape.  And  now  the  liquid  notes  of  the  game- 
lan,  the  graduated  set  of  bell-like  bamboo  tubes,  sweetest  of  all  game- 
lan  instruments,  flowed  forth  and  most  willingly  followed,  suiting  their 
wavelike  gliding  and  tripping  to  that  majestic  motion.  And  the  con¬ 
cord  of  multitudinous  music  with  its  stream  of  melody  overflowed  all 
hearts  until  angry  whirls  of  misunderstanding  and  self-will  subsided, 
and  joy  in  common  was  felt  because  of  the  work  wrought  in  common. 
When  Soot  an  Arab  cried  out  that  all  had  done  well,  and  the  Builder  of 
the  Bridge  had  been  well  pleased  with  the  work  of  each  and  all,  every 
man  was  content ;  although,  to  be  sure,  the  men  of  the  coast  thought : 
“He  is  a  man  of  the  coast,  one  of  our  own  folk!”  and  the  hill  men 
thought:  “He  is  the  Headman  of  Gandasoli,  one  of  our  own  folk!” 
So  they  answered  as  with  one  voice:  “It  is  most  true!” 

Then  the  whilom  pirate  began  the  praise  of  the  Builder  of  the 
Bridge. 

“A  captain  in  truth  he  was.  A  liberal  praiser,  a  just  assigner  of  re¬ 
wards,  a  discoverer  of  the  guilty,  a  fearless  chastiser. 

“He  discovered  the  deceit  concerning  the  cement,  and  the  deceit  con¬ 
cerning  the  piles,  and  how  the  foreman  who  lived  like  a  Hollander  in 
a  stone  house,  although  he  has  a  black  face  like  the  rest  of  us,  stole  the 
teak  wood  for  the  planking  of  the  bridge,  and  how  he  falsified  the  pay¬ 
list  and  paid  out  wages  to  villagers  who  never  had  done  any  work,  but 
on  pay-days  squatted  by  his  house,  amongst  the  workmen,  and  at  night 
brought  the  money  back  to  the  foreman,  keeping  a  little  for  themselves 
as  a  reward ;  all  this  he  discovered  and  punished.  His  hands  were  many ! 
And  he  feared  nothing!  I  myself  warned  him  that  the  foreman  lay  in 
wait  for  him  in  the  dark  to  kill  him.  He  laughed.  He  would  not  carry 
a  weapon  for  his  defence.  He  went  where  he  would,  even  by  night.  He 
wTas  a  courageous  man,  a  fit  captain  for  men  of  courage!” 

He  ceased,  his  eagle  face  all  alight. 

But  a  soft  and  diffident  voice  began  timidly:  “Courageous  of  a  truth 
he  was,  and,  toward  evil-doers,  severe ;  but  with  the  timid  Our  Friend 
was  patient,  and  most  generous  to  those  in  need.  He  did  not  deny  us 
the  sacrifice  to  the  spirits  when  we  found  courage  to  ask  him.  You  your- 


95 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

self,  Grandfather  Hadji,  consecrated  the  sacrificial  meal  that  he  or¬ 
dered  to  be  spread.  The  horn-tips  of  the  bullock  that  he  gave  us  were 
as  far  apart  as  a  man’s  hands  when  he  stretches  out  both  arms!” 

The  priest  answered : 

“I  consecrated  the  meal  by  the  bridge,  I  pronounced  the  prayers. 
And  he,  Our  Friend,  said:  ‘Friend  Hadji!  What  is  it  that  thou  con- 
secratest?  Is  it  the  bridge?  think  well!’  He  smiled,  and  I  knew  his 
thought,  so  that  I  said:  ‘Seemingly  a  bridge,  but  in  truth  a  new  life  for 
the  people  of  the  hills!’  And  he  said:  ‘May  it  prosper,  friend  Hadji!’  ” 

A  chorus  of  voices  answered  out  of  the  darkness:  “May  it  prosper!” 

The  poet-musician  took  the  lead  again.  “From  the  trees  of  the  moun¬ 
tain  forest,  from  the  bowels  of  the  steep,  from  the  rocks,  from  the 
morass  that  shifts  and  glides,  from  the  sand  in  the  windings  of  the 
river,  the  builder  fashioned  the  foundations  of  the  bridge.  He  made  the 
land  into  a  road  across  the  water.” 

And  to  the  beat  of  the  music  which  continued  when  he  had  ceased, 
the  builders  at  the  bridge  fell  in,  and  the  children  of  those  who  had  been 
builders  at  the  bridge,  one  looking  toward  another,  so  as  to  commemo¬ 
rate  in  concert,  as  once  in  concert  they  had  wrought,  the  work.  Each 
allowed  the  other  his  turn,  waited,  fell  in,  passed  on  the  song;  so  that, 
though  lesser  in  sound  and  slighter,  yet  almost  more  beautiful,  there 
now  began  a  chiming  of  voices  around  the  watch-fire  by  the  bridge  as 
in  the  beginning  of  the  night  there  had  been  a  chiming  of  bells  along 
the  rising  river,  upstream  and  downstream.  Even  as  the  bells,  the  men 
called  out,  each  for  his  own  village,  for  what  his  father  or  his  kinsman 
or  his  fellow  villagers  had  done  toward  the  building  of  the  bridge;  so 
that,  even  as  the  bells  had  imaged  the  invisible  landscape,  so  the  voices 
imaged  the  past  event,  and  the  building  of  the  bridge  was  made  a  thing 
of  the  present  hour. 

The  darkling  multitude  and  the  women  under  the  banyan  heard. 
How  of  the  slender  trees  felled  in  the  hill  forest,  damar  laoot,  rasa- 
mala,  marbaw,  merantee,  the  auxiliary  bridge  was  built,  high-piled  and 
wide,  along  which  the  erection  crane  and  the  trucks  of  the  Decauville 
railway  carried  loads  too  unwieldy  for  human  strength,  whilst  the 
workmen  swarmed  upon  it  like  ants,  in  apparent  confusion  and  hidden 
order;  how  the  excavations  were  begun  for  the  northern  abutment,  and 
how  in  the  ever  changing  soil,  in  the  hot  season  hard,  dry,  and  cracked 


96  ISLAND-INDIA 

as  the  potter’s  dishes  in  too  fierce  a  fire,  but  a  deep  marsh  in  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  season  of  rains,  and  then  a  lake,  and  then  a  deep  marsh 
again — how  a  stable  firmness  was  made  there  with  two  sunk  shafts,  two 
hollow  columns  of  masonry,  that  with  sharply  tapering  base  bored 
down  into  the  mud,  and  whilst  the  mud  gulped  upward  into  the  shafts, 
they  sank  ever  deeper  into  it,  being  driven  down  by  their  own  weight, 
which  ever  increased  as  the  circular  walls  grew  ever  higher  under  the 
mason’s  hands — this  they  now  heard  from  wood-cutters  and  ground 
workers  and  masons. 

They  heard  of  the  diver  who  descended  into  the  sunk  shaft  to  search 
for  the  hidden  obstacle  that  prevented  it  from  sinking  down  straight; 
and  they  cried  out  at  the  description  of  him  in  his  diving-dress — he 
was  like  the  figure  of  a  bootah,  an  evil  giant,  at  a  Chinese  funeral,  or  in 
the  wayang-orang  representation  of  the  Rape  of  Queen  Sita,  black  all 
over,  having  a  huge  head  and  goggle  eyes  that  had  no  look  in  them,  and 
hands  like  horrible  claws;  and  he  stayed  down  in  the  depth  for  so  long 
a  time  that  it  seemed  he  had  the  nature  of  the  river-crab  that  lives  in  the 
mud  under  the  overhanging  bank  and  moves  and  has  its  being  in  dark 
and  wet  places.  But  he  came  up  again  out  of  the  well,  and  the  women 
ran  away  shrieking  as  the  hideous  head  appeared  over  the  wall,  together 
with  the  tree-stump  dripping  with  black  slime  that  the  monster  had 
rooted  up  out  of  the  depth. 

They  heard  of  the  engines — “iron  buffaloes  and  iron  elephants  with 
a  heart  of  fire  they  were!”  cried  the  narrator — that  had  driven  in  piles, 
sucked  up  water  and  mud,  plunged  down  cement,  carried  over  burdens, 
raised  up  loads  more  tremendous  than  ever  were  dreamt  of  by  the 
maker  of  the  spell  of  The  Thousand  Buffaloes,  the  incantation  that 
moves  immovable  weights. 

They  heard  of  the  fever  that  arose  poisonous  out  of  the  upturned 
soil,  a  shivering  of  heat  and  cold,  a  burning  in  the  bones,  a  corruption 
in  the  blood. 

And  they  heard  of  the  time  of  suspense,  when  upon  the  wooden  aux¬ 
iliary  bridge,  built  over  the  completed  foundations,  and  the  abutments 
with  their  mighty  corner-stones  and  the  central  pile  broad-based  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  the  men  of  the  field  smithy  were  ready  to  begin 
the  riveting  together,  piece  by  piece,  of  the  ironwork  that  was  to  be¬ 
come  the  permanent  bridge;  how  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge,  waiting 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE  97 

for  the  clear  weather  of  the  dry  season,  would  stand  looking  toward 
the  west,  toward  the  bay  of  sky  between  two  converging  slopes, 
against  which,  tall  and  solitary,  the  gigantic  Rasamala  tree  towered. 
“More  numerous  than  the  bees  swarming  around  the  blackness  of  the 
tree,  Our  Friend’s  thoughts  were  then  around  the  Rasamala!”  said 
Hadji  Moosa.  The  mandoor  of  the  builders  explained  to  them  how, 
even  as  the  child  that  will  be  a  strong  man  when  grown  up,  is  frail 
within  the  frail  mother’s  womb  and  easy  to  hurt,  together  with  her  who 
is  easy  to  hurt,  so  the  iron  bridge,  strong  as  it  was  to  be,  yet  was  but 
frail  as  long  as,  whilst  it  was  a-building,  it  was  supported  on  the 
wooden  auxiliary  bridge,  and  must  be  wrecked  at  the  same  time  with 
it  if  the  sudden  rising  of  the  river  and  the  shock  of  the  driftwood  should 
break  down  its  wooden  piles.  And  a  man  who  had  worked  in  the  field 
smithy  cried  out  how,  when  at  last  that  final  work  of  the  riveting  be¬ 
gan,  the  smiths  had  made  haste,  in  order  that  the  moment  of  peril  to  the 
bridge  might  be  as  short  as  possible.  In  still  widening  circles,  narrated 
by  an  ever  growing  multitude  of  voices,  the  choric  story  spread  around 
the  beginner,  the  poet-musician;  and  so  vivid  and  actual  did  the  tale 
of  the  distant  events  become  to  the  listeners  that,  as  in  a  thing  of  that 
hour  and  that  place,  they  began  to  take  part  in  it,  and  for  all  they  had 
sat  so  silent  at  first  under  the  canopying  and  curtaining  darknesses  of 
the  banyan,  the  women  presently  joined  in  the  half-saying,  half-chant¬ 
ing  of  the  story. 

As  the  men  told  of  their  deeds,  so  the  women  told  of  their  waiting 
and  their  rejoicing.  Shyly  and  very  softly  they  sang  at  first,  hesitating 
followers  of  Rookmini’s  song  that  encouraged  and  led  them.  But 
gradually  they  grew  bolder,  more  at  their  ease  in  this  strange  night,  in 
which  all  things  were  novel  and  strange.  Over  the  deeply  resonant 
voices  of  the  men  the  women’s  voices  rose  with  a  clear  ring.  And  as, 
triumphantly,  the  men  sang  in  a  final  chorus:  “All  together,  men  of 
the  hills,  men  of  the  coast,  men  who  live  by  the  river,  men  who  live  in 
the  rice-fields,  all  together  we  built  the  bridge!”  the  women  sang  in 
response :  “We  heard  the  stroke  of  the  axe  on  the  slopes,  and  the  fall  of 
darkly  swaying  trees  we  saw  from  afar.  We  heard,  as  if  it  had  been 
the  rolling  of  thunder,  the  bursting  of  the  rock.  Joyously  we  called  to 
one  another:  ‘Of  the  mountain  and  the  mountain  forest  our  men  are 


98 


ISLAND-INDIA 


making  a  bridge!’  Joyously  the  rice  pounders  at  the  rice-block  made 
answer  to  the  sounds  of  the  work  with  the  pounding  of  their  pestles.” 

Then  the  alternating  song  of  the  deep  voices  and  of  the  high  voices 
paused.  But,  as  after  the  many-tongued  call  of  the  bells  along  the  river, 
the  air  still  was  softly  stirred  for  a  while  with  an  after-resonance  of 
harmony. 


The  watchers  of  the  second  watch  came  back  from  the  bridge;  they 
said  that  the  river  rose  no  more.  And  the  watchers  of  the  last  turn  went. 

Anew  the  gamelan  began.  From  the  melody  that  had  accompanied 
the  chorus,  the  ensemble  of  musical  instruments  passed  to  one  of  a  dif¬ 
ferent  tone,  and  the  multitude  gazed  at  the  poet-musician,  bending 
forward  with  a  listening  inclination  of  the  body,  their  faces  raised;  for 
now  that  which  they  most  of  all  wished  to  hear  was  coming :  the  strife 
of  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge  with  the  Bandjir.  The  crowds  at  a  festival 
are  not  so  still  before  the  lighted  screen  where  the  dalang  shows  forth 
the  strife  of  Krisjna,  the  heavenly  hero,  with  the  wicked  giant. 

“The  Tjikidool  heard  the  voice  of  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge. 
He  rose  up  in  wrath.  From  his  feet,  over  which  the  surf  breaks,  unto 
his  head  that  lies  on  the  Mountain  of  Storms,  he  foamed  with  rage.  He 
drank  the  blackness  of  the  heavens  to  gain  him  strength  for  the  strife. 
He  ate  earth,  swearing  an  oath  that  he  would  destroy  the  Bridge,  that 
he  would  slay  the  Builder.  To  the  Forest-King,  the  dark  prince,  he 
said:  ‘As  the  Gandaroowa  carried  Shiva,  so,  Lord  of  the  great  Soli¬ 
tude!  I  will  carry  thee.  Together  we  will  go  to  battle.5  Astride  on  the 
Waterfall,  the  Forest  challenged  the  Bridge  and  the  Builder.” 

Sitoo  Arab  leapt  to  his  feet.  “The  iron  bridge  was  completed;  we 
thought,  to-morrow  we  will  lower  it  on  to  the  corner-stones;  soon  we 
shall  celebrate  the  great  festival  of  the  completion!  Then  came  the 
Bandjir!”  As  if  they  themselves  had  been  working  hurriedly  at  the 
hurried  and  precise  work,  as  if  they  themselves  had  rejoiced  in  the  ap¬ 
proaching  consummation,  as  if  they  themselves  sat  paralyzed  by  sud¬ 
den  terror,  the  multitude  repeated  with  one  voice:  “Then  came  the 
Bandjir!”  And  that  one  anxious  voice,  a  late  echo  of  ancient  terrors, 
quavered  out,  all  alone:  “And  then  came  the  Bandjir!” 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 


99 


A  new  voice  rang  out,  that  had  not  yet  been  heard.  It  had  a  sound  as 
strong  and  deep,  as  full  of  high  tones  and  sudden  booming  depths,  as 
water  in  a  rocky  ravine.  “Through  the  nights  and  through  the  days  the 
rain  fell.  Like  a  wall  the  rain  encompassed  us.  There  were  no  hills  any 
more  in  the  distance.  There  were  no  slopes  any  more  near  by,  nor  green 
woods,  but  only  a  twilight  of  waters,  rain  only  and  rain  clouds.  Rain 
flowed  out  of  the  roots  of  the  forest,  rain  flowed  out  of  the  stones  of  the 
mountains,  the  firm  ground  was  turned  to  rain.  Our  fields  on  the  slope, 
green  with  sprouting  rice,  melted  into  rain.  The  young  growth  rose  to 
meet  the  rain;  together  with  the  rain  it  sprang  down  the  mountain 
slopes.  The  field  and  the  fruit  of  the  field  were  changed  into  a  water¬ 
fall  that  leapt  down  the  ravine!” 

A  second  voice  began:  “Off  the  slopes  the  water  fell  down  upon  our 
village  in  the  valley.  Out  of  the  river  the  water  climbed  up  to  us.  Our 
footpaths  became  streams,  our  village  green  became  a  lake.  The 
women  wandered  about  weeping ;  they  saw  their  household  goods  float 
away,  they  saw  their  houses  shaking.  With  their  babes  wrapped  in  their 
carrying-scarves,  they  stood  in  the  rain;  they  knew  not  where  to  hide 
themselves.  The  song  which  the  threshers  sing  when  they  carry  out  the 
first  rice  from  the  rice-barn,  singing  that  the  threshing  is  a  feast  upon 
the  river  for  the  Bridal  Pair  of  the  Rice,  the  rice-block  shall  be  their 
prao  and  the  pestles  their  oars — the  Song  of  the  Threshing  came  true. 
Like  a  prao  verily,  the  rice-block  floated !  The  pestle  floated  like  an  oar 
when  the  oarsman  is  drowned.” 

The  deep  voice  that  was  like  the  voice  of  the  water  itself,  began  again 
in  its  dull,  resounding  tones.  “The  northern  slope  of  Goonoong  Hitam 
fell  in.  Then  the  Rasamala  fell!  Like  a  thunder  storm  he  fell,  like  the 
lightning  and  the  cloud-burst!  We  saw  it  from  afar,  we  people  of  Dja- 
lang  Tiga.  Black  as  a  thunder-cloud  he  plunged  into  the  ravine.  Stones 
flew  like  a  shower  of  hail.” 

Sitoo  Arab  cried:  “We  heard  the  thunder  of  the  landslip!  We  had 
come  together  at  dawn,  all  of  us.  The  men  stood  along  either  bank  of 
the  river,  from  the  bridge  as  far  as  to  the  great  bend,  and  on  the  scaf¬ 
folding  we  stood,  as  many  as  could  find  room  to  stand.  The  trees  came 
floating  round  the  bend.  From  the  scaffolding  we  could  see  the  river 
all  dark  with  driftwood.  It  was  as  if  the  forest  were  floating  upon  it. 
From  the  banks  the  men  grasped  at  the  trees,  thrusting  out  long  hooks 


100  ISLAND-INDIA 

to  seize  them.  Those  that  they  caught  and  pulled  ashore,  they  made  fast 
to  the  trees.  Those  that  floated  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  they  could 
not  attain,  neither  from  the  low  bank  of  the  north  nor  from  the  steep 
bank  of  the  south. 

“They  drifted  downstream.  We  saw  them  coming  down  toward  the 
bridge,  we  who  stood  on  the  scaffolding.  We  waited:  we  stood  ready  to 
catch  them  on  our  long  hooks.  As  they  came  near  we  pushed  them  away 
into  the  spaces  between  the  supports.  The  trunks  crashed  against  the 
piles,  causing  the  scaffolding  to  stagger.  At  every  shock  it  seemed  as 
if  it  must  break  down,  such  a  groaning  and  creaking  there  was,  and 
such  a  swaying  of  piles  and  planks. 

“But  we  looked  at  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  scaffolding;  he  did  not  give  way.  And  there  was  not  one  of  us 
who  gave  way.  He  said :  ‘Men,  stand  firm !  All  of  us  together,  we  will 
save  the  bridge!’  And  we  made  answer:  ‘We  stand  firm!  We  will  hold 
the  bridge.’  ” 

And  the  multitude  cried:  “We  will  hold  the  bridge!” 

“A  great  deal  of  driftwood  came  down,  a  very  great  deal!  The  men 
on  the  southern  bank  seized  and  made  fast,  the  men  on  the  northern 
bank  seized  and  made  fast ;  we  who  stood  on  the  bridge,  we  sent  it  drift¬ 
ing  between  the  piles.  And  when  it  grew  noon,  and  there  was  less  of 
driftwood  and  less  of  the  swaying  and  groaning  of  the  scaffolding,  we 
all  thought :  We  have  won ! 

“But  then  came  the  Rasamala!  We  saw  him  approaching  round  the 
bend  of  the  river ;  black,  ah !  as  a  black  rock  was  the  great  clump  of  his 
roots !  Like  a  hill  under  which  there  is  a  deep  cave,  he  loomed  up  above 
the  river.  The  men  along  the  banks  from  the  bend  of  the  river  down  to 
the  bridge  cried  out  with  a  great  cry.  Ah !  how  huge  he  was,  huge  be¬ 
yond  all  thoughts !  In  all  the  years  that  we  had  seen  him  on  the  moun¬ 
tain,  tallest  of  all  the  trees  of  the  forest,  high  above  all  the  others,  by 
very  much  the  highest  of  all,  and  had  thought,  ‘As  a  mountain  on  the 
mountain  is  the  Rasamala’ — in  all  these  years  we  had  not  known  how 
huge  in  truth  he  was.  Now  we  saw  it!  For  far  away  as  yet  on  the  thither 
side  of  the  bend  was  the  crown,  when  the  roots  were  already  half  way  to 
the  bridge.  And  when  the  crown  came,  then  it  was  as  if  the  slope  of  the 
southern  bank  suddenly  advanced  into  the  river,  and  a  hill  stood  there 
where  the  water  had  been.  Ah!  the  boughs  made  a  darkness  against 


101 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

the  sky!  We  looked  at  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge.  Not  a  word  he  said; 
his  face  went  white.  Then  he  made  a  sign  that  all  should  leave  the  scaf¬ 
folding.  And  when  the  last  of  us  had  gone,  he  went  too,  very  slowly. 
When  he  had  reached  the  bank,  he  turned  and  stood  still,  looking  at  the 
river  and  at  the  Rasamala ;  he  stood  without  speaking  or  moving,  as  if 
turned  to  stone. 

“The  river  rose,  the  river  rose!  Far  out,  the  low-lying  land  was 
flooded.  Like  an  island  in  the  reeds  the  Ketapan  hill  stood,  where  the 
men  still  made  a  stand,  catching  at  the  drifting  trunks  with  their  hooks. 
Like  a  fleet  of  fishing  praos  that  fishermen  have  moored  to  the  shore  of 
an  island  was  the  throng  of  trees  tossing  on  the  current,  and  all  the  flot¬ 
sam  of  the  river  entangled  among  the  branches.  Then  the  Rasamala 
came,  the  black  hill  of  roots !  Slowly  he  drifted  against  the  trees,  and 
drifted  a  little  farther,  crowding  in  upon  them,  and  lay  still.  Ah!  We 
sighed  with  relief.  He  lay  still!” 

In  the  darkness  the  multitude  murmured:  “Ah!  he  lay  still!” 

Sitoo  Arab  threw  up  his  head  like  a  rearing  horse.  “The  river  rose, 
the  river  rose !  The  current  thrust  against  the  Rasamala.  Slowly,  very 
slowly,  he  drifted  loose  from  amongst  the  trees.  The  men  well  knew 
that  if  he  drifted  out  into  the  middle  of  the  river,  he  would  be  thrust 
against  the  bridge:  then  all  would  be  over!  Desperately,  with  great 
shouts,  they  hurled  grappling  irons  at  him,  even  as,  down  beyond  the 
southeastern  islands,  whalers  hurl  harpoons  at  a  whale.  The  grapple 
caught  in  the  trunk ;  then,  as  they  pulled  on  the  rope,  it  slid  off  again. 
The  men  muttered  that  some  one  should  swim  up  to  the  Rasamala  and 
fasten  ropes  to  the  biggest  boughs ;  then,  pulling  together,  all  of  us,  we 
would  drag  him  ashore.  But  who  would  have  dared  enter  the  river  and 
swim  through  all  that  drift,  tossing  and  hurtling  on  the  current?  I  held 
a  line,  fastened  to  a  coil  of  rope,  ready  for  throwing,  as  we  do  for  the 
salvage  of  a  ship  that  is  wrecked  upon  the  rocks.  But  I  knew  only  too 
well,  none  would  dare — none ! 

“And  the  Rasamala,  a  black  mountain,  a  hill  and  a  forest  upon  a  hill, 
drifted  on.  He  covered  half  the  river!  Slowly  he  drifted,  slowly.  Again 
and  again,  with  his  huge  roots  and  his  huge  boughs,  he  ran  aground  on 
the  many  sandbanks  in  the  river  and  lay  still  a  while,  swaying  as  the 
current  tugged  at  him.  And  the  river,  rising,  rising,  floated  him  again, 


102  ISLAND-INDIA 

and  again  he  drifted  on,  slowly,  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  straight 
on  toward  the  bridge. 

“The  Radhen  Regent  had  come  with  the  Wedana  and  all  the  Head¬ 
men  of  the  villages,  and  many  Hollanders  also  had  come.  F or  the  whole 
district  feared  for  the  bridge.  The  Kandjeng  Resident  was  there,  and 
the  Tooan  Assistant  Resident,  and  the  Tooan  Comptroller  of  Soomber- 
tingghi,  and  he  of  Kali  Red  jo,  and  he  of  Blora,  and  from  the  sugar- 
mills  in  the  plain  there  came  the  Tooan  Besar  and  the  other  Hollanders. 
They  drove  their  carriages  into  the  water  up  to  the  axles,  and  they 
called  to  one  another  across  the  water:  Tt  is  all  over!  It  is  all  over  with 
the  bridge!’  The  Tooan  Besar  of  Wonoredjo  stood  up  in  his  carriage 
and  called  out  that  he  would  give  a  cart  and  a  bullock-team  to  whoever 
would  dare  to  swim  out  to  the  Rasamala.  But  no  one  dared.  Only  Si- 
Badil  of  the  Stone  of  the  Sparrow-Hawks  waded  out  into  the  water.” 

The  multitude  cried:  “Si-Badil  of  Batoo  Helang,  the  brave!”  “Si- 
Badil,  the  robber!”  “The  captain  of  the  men  of  the  Black  Face!”  “Not 
for  the  cart  and  the  bullocks,  verily,  did  he  make  the  venture.  He  ven¬ 
tured  out  of  bravery,  he  the  fearless  one!”  From  all  around  there  rose 
cries  in  praise  of  the  bold  leader  of  a  gang  of  robbers,  since  long  years 
now  a  convict  in  chains  at  work  somewhere  far  away  in  a  mine,  and 
black  with  coal  dust  from  head  to  foot,  as  he  used  to  be  black  in  the  face 
with  soot,  when  disguised  for  a  nocturnal  expedition. 

Sitoo  Arab  cried :  “He  waded  out  into  the  stream,  Si-Badil.  But  he 
looked  upon  the  drifting  wood,  how  it  crowded  and  got  jammed,  and 
upon  the  Rasamala,  far  off  in  the  midst  of  the  stream.  He  stood  still  for 
a  while  and  looked  back  at  the  bank,  and  then  turned  back.  The  Radhen 
Regent  said  aloud,  so  that  every  one  heard :  ‘A  truly  courageous  man 
is  Si-Badil!  To  do  this  thing,  however,  by  Allah!  it  were  not  courage 
but  madness.  Death  itself  it  is  that  is  riding  upon  the  river!’  ” 

The  darkling  choir  repeated:  “Death  itself  it  was  that  rode  upon 
the  river!” 

Sitoo  Arab  threw  up  his  arms.  “Then,  suddenly,  he  stood  in  the 
midst  of  us — he,  the  Builder  of  the  Bridge!  As  a  white  lamp  was  his 
face,  all  pale,  all  alight.  He  threw  off  his  clothes  and  stood  shining.  All 
of  him  was  brightness ;  he  shone.  He  entered  the  water,  he  waded  in  up 
to  the  knees,  up  to  the  hips,  up  to  the  shoulders.  We  held  our  breath  as 
we  looked  at  him  swimming.  His  yellow  head  was  seen  amongst  the 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 


103 


driftwood  as  in  the  season  of  change  the  sun  is  seen  amongst  the  clouds. 
It  shone  out  and  was  darkened  again.  Every  time  it  disappeared,  there 
was  a  sigh:  ‘Ah,  he  is  drowned,  the  all-too-daring  one!’  And  he  rose  up 
again,  and  there  was  a  muttering :  ‘Ah,  he  will  be  caught  between  the 
crunching  trees!’  At  one  moment  we  saw  him  half  out  of  the  water, 
hanging  on  to  a  branch  in  the  crown  of  a  tree.  He  hung  motionless,  his 
head  thrown  back,  and  as  we  looked  we  saw  his  shoulder  and  his  back 
grow  red  with  blood.  And  when  he  sank  again,  he  for  a  long  time  was 
not  seen,  and,  drifting  on,  the  Rasamala  with  his  great  boughs  made  a 
darkness,  there  where  he  had  been.  Now,  surely,  we  thought,  now 
surely  he  has  perished,  being  wounded  and  exhausted ;  and  the  moun¬ 
tain  of  the  Rasamala  is  over  him !  And  women  began  to  lament,  weep¬ 
ing  aloud. 

“But  suddenly  the  men  on  the  southern  bank  cried  out,  with  a  cry 
that  made  the  hills  ring;  and  we  saw  him,  far  away,  his  face  above  the 
topmost  branches  of  the  Rasamala!  He  drifted,  standing  upright;  he 
held  himself  to  a  tall  bough  as  a  man  wrecked  at  sea  holds  himself  to 
the  ship’s  mast.  And  the  people  shouted  as  if  they  had  gone  mad  with 
joy.  They  shouted,  they  leapt.  They  would  have  plunged  into  the  river 
to  be  with  him.  He  raised  his  arm  aloft;  I  threw  the  line.  A  hundred  of 
us  dragged  the  Rasamala  ashore.  The  bridge  was  saved!” 

Sitoo  Arab  shouted  as  he  had  shouted  in  that  moment  of  final  tri¬ 
umph.  And  the  multitude  shouted  with  him  as  if  they  were  part  of  that 
throng  crowding  the  flooded  bank  for  a  sight  of  the  formidable  tree 
and  of  the  naked  shining  man  astride  a  great  branch  and  steering  for 
the  shore  with  a  roof-beam  seized  up  out  of  the  wreck  adrift  on  the 
river.  Even  Hadji  Moosa  cried  out,  even  the  women  under  the  banyan. 

The  dalang  raised  his  hand ;  all  the  gamelan-players  together  began 
a  stately  music.  And  he  himself,  the  poet-musician,  raised  with  ringing 
voice  the  song  of  victory.  It  echoed  along  the  dark  river. 

“Terrible  the  Dark  Prince  came  rushing  on,  riding  his  terrible  steed. 
His  head  was  over  the  land  even  as  a  darkening  of  the  sun.  The  plain 
shook  because  of  his  charger’s  hoof-beats  and  of  the  snorting  of  his  nos¬ 
trils.  He  held  his  club  raised  on  high  against  the  Builder  and  the 
Bridge.  He  challenged  his  enemy  with  a  fearful  shouting. 

“The  Builder  of  the  Bridge  strode  toward  him.  He  stood  alone.  He 
had  no  weapon.  With  his  hands  he  seized  the  unapproachable  one.  He 


ISLAND-INDIA 


104 

tore  him  from  his  rearing  charger,  he  flung  him  to  earth,  he  planted  his 
foot  upon  his  breast,  he  bound  him  with  bonds  not  to  be  broken.  Low 
lay  his  proud  head,  that  had  made  men  senseless  with  terror;  powerless 
lay  his  hundred  arms,  that  had  spread  night  over  the  land.  As  the  sun 
stands  shining  above  the  black  clouds,  even  so  the  Builder  stood  shining 
above  the  King  of  the  Forest.  As  the  rainbow  in  dark  skies  stood  the 
Bridge.” 

The  song  streamed  in  an  ample  rhythm,  full  and  strong.  The  rumour 
of  the  river,  gradually  grown  less  tumultuous,  was  as  another  voice 
among  the  many,  deep  voices  and  high,  that  joined  in  with  the  one 
ringing  out  clearest  of  all,  the  voice  of  the  poet-musician.  Underneath 
the  beats  of  the  long  drum,  resoundingly  reiterated,  the  rushing  of  the 
water  was  an  even  sound,  continuous  and  full. 


The  ending  song  closed  the  vigil  as  the  beginning  song  had  opened  it. 
Like  some  pageant  moving  through  the  night,  a  long  procession  of 
voices,  the  story  celebrating  the  building  of  the  bridge  and  the  deed 
dared  by  the  Builder  had  passed.  Even  as,  in  a  pageant,  gorgeous  horse¬ 
men  ride,  as  priests  tread  gravely  with  earnest  eyes,  and  armed  men 
stride  proudly  on;  as  the  bearers  of  the  princely  heirlooms,  and  the 
jewels,  and  the  symbols  of  riches,  long  life,  and  power  follow  in  well- 
ordered  ranks,  and  women  two  and  two,  holding  one  another  by  the 
hand,  bear  offerings  of  flowers,  and  maidens  trip,  decked  for  the  dance, 
and,  waving  from  tall  staffs,  a  glitter  of  many  banners  flutters  above 
the  chattering  multitude — even  thus  the  verses  of  the  poet-musician 
and  the  tales  of  old  times  told  by  Hadji  Moosa  and  the  lament  of  the 
ancient  ones  of  the  forest  had  passed  by,  even  thus  Sitoo  Arab’s  exulta¬ 
tion  and  boasting;  and  amidst  the  outcries  and  the  laughter  of  the 
multitude,  the  insults  and  repartees,  the  turbulent  voices,  the  pantoons 
walked  in  fair  couples.  And  all  along  the  way,  in  light  festoons  that 
ended  in  a  stately  triumphal  arch,  there  was  the  music. 

The  night  was  over.  With  quenched  torches  the  watchers  of  the  last 
watch  returned  from  the  river  banks  and  from  the  bridge.  They  said 
that  the  river  was  falling. 


105 


THE  VIGIL  BY  THE  BRIDGE 

The  thin  chill  that  comes  before  dawn  was  in  the  air;  shivering,  men 
and  women,  as  they  rose  from  the  dark  earth,  drew  their  garments 
closer  about  them.  In  the  pale  glamour  that  was  almost  light,  village 
neighbours  recognized  one  another,  faces  appeared  where  only  voices 
had  been.  Now  for  the  first  time  the  many  knew  how  many  they  had 
been  by  the  bridge ! 

The  women  waked  their  children,  who,  soft  and  heavy  and  warm, 
leaned  against  them,  deep  in  sleep,  and,  half  in  a  dream  still,  lay  for  a 
moment  with  round  open  eyes  before  they  rose,  and,  with  hand  on 
mother’s  carrying  scarf,  trotted  after  her  to  the  river  for  the  morning 
bath. 

Market  folk  came  down  from  the  hill,  the  narrower  stream  of  early 
morning  after  the  broad  stream  of  night.  On  the  high  road  through  the 
middle  of  the  forest  a  sparkling  medley  of  colours  gay  as  flowers  moved 
through  the  chequered  sunlight.  The  first  train  came  rushing  up  out  of 
the  plain ;  its  flying  rattle-run  over  the  bridge  shook  awake  all  things 
that  live  by  day. 

The  night  had  been  beautiful;  it  was  over.  Now  everyday  things  be¬ 
gan  again.  Upon  the  highway  into  the  plain,  the  people,  as  they  fol¬ 
lowed  one  another  in  long  files,  were  talking  of  the  market,  and  of  the 
festival  where  the  dalang  was  to  act  a  wayang  play,  and  of  the  arrival 
of  the  pilgrims  from  Mecca. 

But  more  than  one  looked  back  at  the  bridge.  Over  the  turgid  river, 
all  dark  with  flotsam,  it  reared  its  shining  curves,  radiant  in  the  purple 
light  of  dawn.  It  seemed  other  than  it  had  been  up  to  this  night:  fairer. 

Soomarti,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  press  of  boys  and  girls,  walked  with 
the  dalang  and  his  musicians,  sang  to  the  new  music  of  that  night,  for 
which  as  yet  no  words  had  been  found,  a  new  pantoon;  all  the  young 
folk  joined  in. 

“For  the  feet  of  market  folk  are  many  bridges ;  they  stretch  from  one  side  of 
the  river  to  the  other. 

“For  the  hearts  of  brothers  is  our  bridge;  it  stretches  from  to-day  to  to¬ 


morrow. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


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